


No Armor Against Fate

by mille_libri



Series: Fate [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 16:09:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 37
Words: 40,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5381609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mille_libri/pseuds/mille_libri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When honor and happiness go in different directions, how do you salvage yourselves from the parting?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pillow Talk

Thora lay on her side in the blankets, feeling her heartrate slowly return to normal. Alistair held her from behind, and though she couldn’t see the big grin on his face, she could feel it. He’d done quite well for his first time. Natural skills, apparently, she thought. Her pulse began to speed up again from the memory. Or it could have been from his fingers, which were slowly tracing the contours of her arm. She sighed.

In the darkness, she heard him chuckle. “You know,” he began, and she smiled. Of course, he couldn’t stay quiet for long. “According to all the sisters of the Chantry, I should have been struck by lightning by now.”

“That so?” she murmured sleepily.

“Oh, yes. Lightning and … and a rain of toads, and the end of the world as we know it.” He bent and slowly kissed her shoulder, tasting her soft skin. “I’m a bad, bad man,” he murmured.

Thora didn’t say anything, but she shifted onto her back to allow his hand, which had now wandered to her flat stomach, better access. 

Absently, focusing on the small patterns he was tracing on her skin, he said, “Our little band is going to talk. They do that.”

Abruptly she giggled, startling him into halting his operations, which had just begun to drift southward. Her laughter was so rare, and a girlish giggle like that was like pure gold. He only wished he knew what he’d said so he could say it again. “They already have,” she said, laughter still tinting her voice. “Wynne took me aside a few days ago and gave me a lecture.”

“What kind of lecture?” She had his full attention now, although his fingertips were resting in a very distracting place. She shifted slightly to get him to continue his earlier activities, but he shook his head at her, enjoying teasing her. “What kind of lecture?” he repeated.

“It was—“ She broke off, gasping, as he wiggled his fingers. “Do you want me to tell you, or—do you want to keep doing that?”

“Both?” He grinned.

She grabbed his hand, holding it away from her body. “Wynne’s lecture was about equal parts ‘isn’t it selfish of you to be thinking of yourselves at a time like this,’ ‘what will you do if ending the Blight means giving up each other,’ and ‘you red-headed hussy, keep your hands off that sweet, innocent boy.’”

Alistair laughed, wrenching his hand from her grasp. “I see how well you’ve listened, too.”

“What can I say?” she asked, her heart shining in her brown eyes as she looked at him. “You’re irresistible.”

“I’ve always thought so,” he said. “But it appears to be a minority opinion.”

Her fingers twined in his hair and drew his mouth down to hers. His hands roamed her body, ending up cupping her breasts. 

“I don’t mind, you know,” she whispered, arching her back to give him better access.

“Mind?” 

“The others. Talking. About us.” The words were mostly gasps as his hands and mouth moved down her body. 

“Oh, you say that now,” he muttered, kissing her inner thigh, “but tomorrow it will be icy glares and frosty silence just before battle.” After that there was no more talking for a while.

As they lay cuddled together in the afterglow of the second time, his voice broke the darkness again. “So …”

“Yes?” Her voice had a slight edge to it. Talking was all well and good, but eventually there would need to be sleeping. Oh, by the Stone, she thought in mingled annoyance and affection. I bet he even talks in his sleep.

“Er, what now? I mean, where do we go from here?”

“Besides to sleep?”

“Well, after that.”

Thora sighed, running her hand up the firm muscles of his back and holding him close. “We stay together, Alistair. No matter what.”

“Right,” he said. “I can handle that. … I hope.” After another few moments, he said, “Have I told you I love you?” At her nod—how could she forget how he had held himself back, shaking with the depth of his need for her, so that he could say the words first? It was the most erotic thing she could ever have imagined—he said, “Well, it won’t kill you to hear it again, now, will it?”

“No,” she growled, “but I might kill you if you don’t stop talking and go to sleep.”

“Hint taken,” he said. But he sounded slightly wounded.

After a pause, she whispered, “Alistair?” It was little more than a breath—she’d said it the same way earlier, in the midst of their activities, and he thought he could become completely addicted to hearing her call his name that way, it was such an intoxicating feeling. 

He sighed in mock exasperation. “I thought we’d agreed you’d stop talking and go to sleep.”

“Sorry,” she said, a hint of laughter in her tone. “I just wanted to tell you something.”

“What’s that?”

“I love you, too.”

She felt his smile and then his kiss, and neither of them slept for a long time.


	2. Chasing Waterfalls

It was resting day in camp, a chance to recoup their strength and repair equipment and restock supplies before beginning their trip up the mountain to Haven. Alistair emerged from their tent. It was a concept he was still staggered by, the idea that the two of them had a place to go that was just theirs, even if it was only a portable piece of canvas. He looked around as he emerged, waiting for the comments.

“Yes, Alistair, we get it,” Morrigan said. “Prowess and all that. You can wipe the smirk off your face now.” Wynne and Leliana both smothered giggles and refused to meet his eye. Alistair grinned impishly to cover his blushes. But the performance was lost since the most important member of the audience wasn’t there. He lifted his eyebrows in Wynne’s direction.

“I haven’t seen her, Alistair. I believe she was out of camp before I was awake. She did take the dog, if it’s any consolation.”

“Hmm… Well, I think I’ll just, maybe, take a walk. Such a nice morning and all that. Firewood?” 

More smothered giggles sounded behind him as he walked out of the camp, pretending to be casual. Once he was clear of the perimeter, though, his gaze became watchful and he moved smoothly and swiftly through the forest, following the sound of the splashing waterfall they had heard last night. Alistair was pretty sure that waterfall had led to Thora’s decision to camp here. He’d heard her murmur something about soap and water pressure and seen her touch the coiled mat of braids at the back of her head. He cursed inwardly his unfortunate penchant for sleeping in.

He’d seen the braids unpinned once. They fell heavily to the middle of her calves—her shapely calves, the ones that hooked around the back of his thighs and held him… No! None of those thoughts, not until later, at least, he amended the thought happily. But he longed to see the whole glorious mass loose around her, to bury his face in the silky red-gold strands, to feel it sliding across his chest … 

At last he arrived at the side of the small pool created by the little waterfall, and just in time, too, he thought. A cold dip was clearly what he was going to need right about now. But she wasn’t there. “Blast!” he cursed under his breath.

“Looking for someone?” The soft voice came out of the trees near the pool, and he looked to see her watching him from a blanket spread out under a large elm. The mabari lay there with her, grinning at him. Damn dog was gloating, he thought in irritation. Thora’s brown eyes crinkled at him in amusement. He could see from the array of brushes and pins spread on the blanket that he had just missed what he was hoping to see, and as he crossed the clearing to the blanket she put the last few pins in one of the coils. 

Alistair supposed he could just ask her, but it seemed surprisingly intimate, even coming from someone who was sleeping with her every night. She was so private about her hair. The one time he had seen the braids unpinned she had blushed a deep crimson, a color his most suggestive remarks couldn’t bring out in her.

She stood up and walked across the clearing, raising her mouth to him. He put his arms around her, lifting her up, amazed once again at how light she was for such a powerful warrior. One hand wandered up her back as he held her easily with the other. He stroked the back of her neck, feeling the coils of braid, still slightly damp.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” he asked abruptly, breaking the kiss. She lifted her delicate brows, looking at him quizzically. “Your hair,” he clarified. “Pinned up and no-nonsense—like armor—so much of the time, but then every once in a while you let it down and it’s … well, I’m going to guess it’s glorious. Like you.”

“And Morrigan thinks there’s something wrong with your brains,” she whispered. “You see more in people than anyone I’ve ever met.”

It was his turn to blush. 

“Something like that,” she said. “And thank you.” Her lips turned up in what Wynne and Leliana referred to as her “Alistair smile”, and as always he felt like he was standing in a ray of sunshine when she smiled at him that way. Then, wrapping her legs around his waist, she leaned forward to kiss him again, and the ray of sunshine turned to a shaft of fire.


	3. Duty or Death

It was a gala night in Redcliffe Castle. The arl was resting—healing rest, this time, thanks to Andraste’s ashes—in his apartments with his wife and child. Teagan was carrying on rather drunkenly with the barmaid from the village tavern, and even the uber-formal Ser Perth had unbent a bit. Perhaps that was the result of the Orlesian wine … or possibly the Orlesian-trained bard who sat at his side. Either way, Leliana was enjoying herself quite a bit, Thora noticed. She was glad for her friend, who struggled with the conflicts of her past more than Thora would like to see. 

Morrigan, of course, had chosen to camp alone outside the castle walls, and Lohengrin had stayed with her. Not exactly to Morrigan’s pleasure, but it couldn’t be argued that the dog was an excellent guard and would keep Morrigan safe from any roving bands of templars. 

Thora sat at the end of the feast table—still in full armor, since there were no dwarf-sized clothes to be had in the castle and none of what she had was suitable for a feast. Still, she reflected, she felt more at ease in the armor than she would in a dress anyway. She didn’t see Wynne, and suspected the mage had stolen away to the library to read in peace and quiet. What Thora did see was Alistair, making his way through the crowd with two large mugs of ale.

“I hope one of those is for me,” she said.

He grinned. “What’ll you give me for it?”

“A taste of the business end of my blades?” she asked with narrowed eyes. 

“Right. Duly noted. Never joke with a dwarf about matters of ale.” He handed her the mug, and watched with widened eyes as she tossed the contents down in a single draught. “ _Never_ joke with a dwarf about matters of ale,” he repeated in mock horror.

“You call this stuff ale?” she spluttered, staring at the mug in disgust. “That’s like … bad rainwater. Bad stale rainwater.”

“On behalf of my race, hey!” he said, sitting down next to her and taking a sip. “Rainwater? Really?” He coughed a bit. “Tastes a bit stronger than that to me.”

She eyed him wickedly. “Remind me to play a drinking game with you sometime.”

Leliana reached across the table with a glass. “Here, my friend,” she said, enunciating her words slightly over-clearly. “Try the wine. You may find it has a bit more kick.”

Thora accepted the glass. As she was about to lift it to her lips, Alistair caught her wrist. “Remember,” he said, “don’t drink it all in one gulp. Wine is … not quite like ale.” She nodded, and took a small gulp instead. This time she was the one to cough. Alistair grinned at her, quirking an eyebrow. “Apparently when we try this drinking game you’ll have to be drinking wine. I’ll take your stale rainwater.” 

Thora leaned into his shoulder, feeling the warmth of the wine stealing through her body, mingling with the warmth she always felt when he was around. “Did I tell you,” she said, “that Wynne gave me another talking-to?”

“About us?” His dark eyes were on hers, caressing her the way his voice caressed the word “us”. 

She felt her cheeks heat. “Yes. Apparently she’s decided I have a good effect on you and we have reminded her how important it is to cherish love where you find it.” She drank down some more of the wine.

“Nice of her,” he said, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered into it.

Thora shivered. “It was quite a step, I think. She’s used to being more generally disapproving of us young people and our whims. But she’s still Wynne.”

“Dire warnings?” He took another long swallow of ale.

“Oh, yes. She felt the need to make it clear to me that we could still be parted at any time by duty or death.”

“Well, then. How cheery,” he said. He held up his tankard and she clinked it with her wineglass. “Duty or death!” they said in unison, and drained their respective drinks. As Thora put her glass down, she looked up to see those dark eyes, warm as coals now, staring at her speculatively. He licked his lower lip, and she caught her breath at the images that flooded through her mind.

“I suspect …” he began huskily, then cleared his throat and tried again. “That is, if memory serves, I think there might be … real beds in those rooms upstairs.”

Thora had a sudden vision of what he would look like with candlelight playing on his muscled shoulders. They could never have a candle in the tent—sooner or later they’d knock it over, and how embarrassing that would be, to have to explain how they burnt up the tent. And the idea of sinking back into a soft bed instead of the cold hard ground was certainly tantalizing. “Race you?” she whispered.

If anyone noticed them leave, or the unseemly haste of their going, they didn’t care.


	4. No Time for Words

The night they came back from Ostagar the second time, they were all silent, drained. But Alistair seemed empty. Thora walked at his elbow, saying nothing, knowing that if her lover couldn’t speak he was clearly in an extremity indeed, and no words from her were going to help. Wynne, behind her, made no sound beyond the occasional sniffle, and even Leliana had nothing to say of the beauty of the Maker’s world today. 

Alistair hadn’t wanted anything to do with Cailan’s armor—he’d wanted to send it straight to Denerim. But Thora could imagine a future in which it would be necessary. She took the bundled mass to Arl Eamon’s study when they arrived back at Redcliffe and they had a few quiet words. Eamon took the armor and put it in safekeeping. For now.

After seeing the Arl, Thora took a moment to stop and check on Wynne. Her friend was tired, but seemed in control of herself. “Many have been lost, my dear. At Ostagar and elsewhere. And more will be before we prevail.” Wynne smiled sadly. “Sometimes the weight of the loss rests more heavily on these old bones than others.”

“Will your bones be ready day after tomorrow when we leave for Orzammar?”

“Yes, my dear. I will be ready when you need me.” Wynne looked softly and affectionately at the Grey Warden.

“Thank you, my friend. I will count on your wisdom.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Wynne scoffed, “but you’ll have my advice, at any rate. Whether you ask for it or not.”

The two women smiled at each other, and Thora took a deep breath, heartening herself for the more difficult moment. She slipped down the hall to his room, knocking softly. There was no answer.

As she stood there, debating whether she should just go in, Leliana went by on her way to her own room. She stopped when she saw Thora. “Is he in there?”

“He’s not answering,” Thora said helplessly. “I … don’t know if I should go in or not.”

“You saw him today. Does he seem as though he should be alone?” 

“I don’t know. He … he wasn’t talking at all, and didn’t seem to notice I was there.” Thora turned away from the door. “I should let him be.”

“Didn’t seem to notice?” Leliana snorted lightly. “He kept looking at you, checking to see where you were. I think you were the only thing holding him together.” She reached out and gave Thora a little push.

Was that true? Was he counting on her, and she’d missed it? Thora hesitated. “Are you all right?” she asked Leliana.

“I will pray,” Leliana said with an eloquent shrug. “For him it will not be so simple.” Her sympathetic gaze traveled to the door, and she motioned Thora forward toward it.

Convinced, Thora opened the door, stepping carefully into the room, which was pitch dark. She felt around, finally stumbling over him as he sat on the floor next to the bed. His knees were drawn up, his face buried in his arms, and his shoulders were shaking. 

“Oh, love,” Thora breathed, but she could tell this was still no time for words. She sat down in a similar position, but facing him. She leaned her head against his knee, waiting. After a few moments, his arms unfolded and reached out for her. She knelt at his side, holding his head on her shoulder, feeling the fabric of her shirt dampen with his tears until he had no more. 

At last, exhausted and spent, he allowed her to help him up off the floor and into bed. She climbed in also, sliding under the blankets next to him. Almost asleep, he clutched her to him tightly. “Never leave me,” he breathed. “Promise you’ll never leave me.” He was asleep almost before the last words were out, so he didn’t hear the silence that followed—she simply could not make that promise. Her eyes, tearless and burning, stared into the dark for a long time.


	5. Sunlight over Orzammar

“You’ve been very quiet,” Alistair remarked. “Even for you.”

Thora looked up at him. They were heading into the Frostback Mountains, only a few days from Orzammar. She supposed she had been quieter than usual but hadn’t realized it had been enough for him to notice.

“Is it Orzammar?” he asked.

She sighed. “I just … I don’t know how I’ll be received. I wouldn’t put it past Bhelen to have me put in jail—or back into the Deep Roads—the minute I step inside.”

“They’ll have to go through me first,” Alistair growled. “And Wynne and Leliana and Lohengrin as well. Even Morrigan might not take too kindly to that.”

“Good to know,” she said. “Of course, even as formidable a group as we are might not be a match for an entire nation of dwarves. Although, from the rumors we’ve been hearing, it sounds as though Orzammar is as badly split as Ferelden.” She shook her head. “Politics!” she spat.

“But you were a princess!” Alistair protested. “Surely you were used to all that kind of thing.”

“Used to it, yes. Liked it? Absolutely not. I lost my identity because of it.”

“What do you mean, lost your identity?”

“Didn’t I tell you? My name was struck from the Memories—Orzammar’s official history. I have no claim to the Aeducan name or anything that goes with it. Except for what my father gave to Gorim: his forgiveness, and the Aeducan shield.”

“Would you— Would you want to go back home?”

“Home?” she asked. “I thought I told you, my home is with the Grey Wardens. With you. Duty or death, remember?”

Alistair smiled at her, but the question remained on his face. “What if it’s your duty to rule Orzammar?” 

“No!” He was surprised by her vehemence. “I was—am—a soldier. I’ve never had the time or the patience—or any noticeable talent—for the Assembly or the games that need to be played if you ever expect to accomplish anything.”

“But wouldn’t it be worth all the games and all of it if you could make things better for your people?”

Thora looked at him, a speculative smile crossing her features. This was the man who insisted he didn’t want to be king, and that he wouldn’t make a good one. He was far better fit for the position than she’d ever been, she thought. She knew that she could no longer fight the inevitable: if it were up to her, she’d put him on Ferelden’s throne, even though it would mean the end of their relationship. 

Alistair saw the brief flash of sadness in her eyes, quickly veiled, and wondered what it meant. 

Then she said, “That’s a noble idea, certainly, but not one that I think would work for me. Or for Orzammar.” She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully for a moment. “I do more good for my people up here ending the Blight than I would there, sitting on a useless throne.”

“Don’t you miss it?” She was so rarely willing to talk about any of her past or her former home, he couldn’t just let it go.

“Not at all! I don’t think I ever told you this, but even before I was exiled, I had approached Duncan about joining the Grey Wardens. I don’t know how my father would have taken it, but I was determined to go if I could.” She looked up at him, her eyes shining with her love for him. “So you see, my dearest, we were going to be together one way or the other.”

Alistair’s heart melted, and he stopped right there in the road, tilting her chin up with one finger and bending down to kiss her, softly and sweetly. 

“Must you two constantly engage in all this unnecessary … touching?” Morrigan sighed, walking past them. “The activities in the tent I can understand. Those have some purpose. Even if I’d prefer you kept them more quiet. But this? Is simply irritating.”

Alistair’s eyes flashed dark with annoyance, his usual reaction to Morrigan, but Thora’s hand on his arm quieted him. “Ignore her. Please?”

“I’ll do my best,” he growled. After a moment, they kept walking. “Tell me more about Orzammar, then.” When she looked doubtful, he threatened, “I’ll go have an argument with Morrigan, if you’d rather.” He grinned at her. 

“All right, then,” Thora sighed. “If those are my only two options. What do you want to know?”

“Don’t you miss … something? The food? The ale?”

She thought about that for a moment. “I miss Gorim. He was … a lot like you, really, only shorter.”

“And nowhere near as cute,” Alistair prompted, trying not to be jealous. She’d explained after she’d met the other dwarf in Denerim—launching herself into his arms in an unusual display of emotion—that they had been nothing more than good friends and staunch allies, but that didn’t mean neither of them had ever thought about it.

“Yes,” she said, flashing her special smile at him, the soft curve of her lips warming him clear through, “nowhere near as cute. And one or two other people I thought of as friends. Lord Harrowmont, my father’s second, was a good man and a good friend to my father and our whole family. He was the one who provided me with weapons when I went into the Deep Roads and told me that the Grey Wardens were down there.” She paused, thinking. “The food, the ale … I suppose I do miss them. But they’re all completely overshadowed by how much I love the sheer space out here, the privacy. The water! In Orzammar, water tastes dusty and metallic. But up here? It’s like drinking sunlight, all sparkling clear. And it’s all so free of people watching.”

“People still watch. The entire camp knows everything we do,” Alistair groused, adding under his breath, “and feels the need to comment on it.”

“Yes, but those are friends,” Thora said. “In Orzammar, there’s always someone watching you. Or listening to your conversations.”

“Even the nobility?”

“Especially the nobility! Every wall has a peephole—for the servants to spy on the nobles, for the nobles to spy on each other, and so on. You never know who has paid the person you’re talking to for a report on what you’ve said, never know when what you’ve said will be reported to someone who will use it against you.” Thora shook her head. “I may occasionally miss some small things, but mostly … I love the sky, and the trees, and the water far more than anything Orzammar ever had to offer.” She shot a wicked glance at Alistair. “Not to mention the men.”

“Men? Plural?” Alistair glared at her in mock outrage. “Wait till I get you alone. We’ll just see about that.” He strode off ahead, muttering “Men!” under his breath. Thora grinned after him. With that for priming, tonight should be very, very interesting.


	6. Glorious

The first time the guard at the door called her “exile”, Alistair’s hand clenched of its own volition. He could barely control the urge to take a swing at the man. Thora’s face didn’t change, though. It remained as smooth and serene as always. She even took the epithet “kinslayer” in stride when it was thrown at her, secure in her own innocence. 

As they moved into the vast halls of Orzammar, Alistair kept expecting to see … something in her, some sign that it bothered her to be back here. He knew she’d never liked Orzammarian politics, and that she had intended to join Duncan as a Grey Warden even if she hadn’t been exiled. But still—she’d been a princess here! And now they all looked at her as though she was lower than dirt. That had to bother her, didn’t it? 

When they entered Lord Harrowmont’s sumptuous estate in the Diamond Quarter, Alistair could tell that she was looking forward to seeing the man, remembering him as one of the few friends she could count on. Both of them were shocked when Harrowmont’s second, Dulin Ferender, all but accused her of being a spy for her murdering backstabber of a brother. The dwarf, claiming to be sorry the caution was necessary, made it clear that Thora fighting as Harrowmont’s champion in the Proving was the price of winning the Lord’s trust.

Thora was having more trouble than Alistair imagined giving up her name. “Exile” didn’t bother her—it was what she was. But to be treated as though she were no longer her father’s daughter was almost more than she could bear. She knew there was more than a little of spite and wounded pride in her agreement to fight in the Proving, to defeat her brother Bhelen’s fighters and emerge victorious as Harrowmont’s champion, showing all of Orzammar that the Ancestors still held her in their favor. After all, the last Proving she’d fought in had been to honor her name—let them all remember it now.

As they made their way through the crowded halls, she was grateful for Alistair and Wynne’s near-endless stream of banter. The mage clearly thought of the young templar as the grandchild she’d never had, and he returned the affection. Thora loved listening to the two of them. Especially here, where their chatter seemed like the only lifeline back to her real life on the surface, far from these foolish dwarves and their petty political squabbles that stood between her and ending the Blight.

After arriving in the Proving Grounds, running a couple of small errands to gain Harrowmont more fighters, she approached the Proving Master. A true fighter, his thought was more for the sheer savagery there would be in the fighting with Thora opposing her brother than for her position in the hierarchy. Rubbing his hands together in anticipation, he asked for the name Thora would like to fight under. She thought for a moment, then, sick of these ridiculous rules, she stood to her full height—which in Orzammar actually meant something—and said, “Princess Thora Aeducan.” It felt good to retake her name and to turn her back on the inflexible caste system that she had never believed in, the one that stripped surface dwarves of all connection to their families in Orzammar and kept the same old useless noble houses at the top, instead of allowing for the best and brightest to lead. 

She heard Alistair’s hiss of breath behind her. His face was a mask, his eyes dark and unreadable. Thora studied him for a moment. She knew that sometimes he still felt inadequate, that her past as a princess and his as a nameless bastard still made him feel less than worthy of her. She wondered if he knew how she counted on him being right there, just a step behind her, ready to catch her if she should falter. How his warmth and support were sometimes the only thing keeping her standing. 

As Thora readied herself for the first battle of the Proving, part of her mind was trying to think of a way to show Alistair exactly how much she needed him. Then her opponent came at her, and the familiar sights and smells of the Proving crowded everything else from her thoughts for the time being.

Hours later, with the Proving successfully won and her support of Lord Harrowmont established, she was finally shown into the Lord’s study. He greeted her with affection. “My dear. I am sorry to have put you through all this.”

Thora said nothing, bowing graciously but with hard eyes, knowing all too well how politics trumped emotion in Orzammar. She flicked a look back over her shoulder at the others. “Would you give us a moment, please?”

Alistair wouldn’t have gone, but she gave him her Alistair smile, and how could he refuse her anything when she looked at him like that?

Thora and Harrowmont spent several minutes in quiet conversation about her father’s last days, and some more or less frank conversation about the state of things in the Assembly. That’s when Harrowmont made it clear that smashing the criminal carta that was taking over the city, starting with Dust Town, was the price of his support of the Grey Wardens. Thora sighed, wishing for the wide open spaces of the surface and the privacy of her tent. But of course, what choice did she have? Dust Town it would be. Tomorrow. 

At last, Thora came out of Harrowmont’s office. Her eyes twinkled at Alistair in response to his quizzical look. She nodded to the butler, who led them down the hall to a beautiful suite of rooms. When the butler had left, Thora closed and locked the door behind him. “My friends,” she said, “may I call your attention to the most sought-after luxury in all of Orzammar—privacy! I knew Lord Harrowmont had this suite, and I named it as our price for the Proving and for trying to clean out the carta.” At Wynne’s and Leliana’s curious looks, Thora sighed, looking around the room. “You see, here in Orzammar, it is nearly impossible to be completely alone—especially as a member of the noble caste. Only a few of the nobles have suites like this, built directly into the stone, so no one can build peepholes or listen in.” 

Wynne nodded. “The Tower was similar. The Templars were always lurking, ready to catch us in some mistake.”

Thora nodded wearily. She’d never thought of that before. She sank back into a chair, letting some of the tension ease out of her. One thing she did appreciate about being back here: the furniture was actually the right size. After a few moments, listening to the others debate the differences between living in the Tower and the Chantry, she had fallen asleep.

The others arranged for dinner to be brought in. They woke her up when it arrived, and the four of them sat over their meal for a long time, enjoying the rare chance to relax. 

Eventually, Thora stood up. She’d seen a traditional dwarven stone bath in her room, and it had been too long since she’d had one. “It’s been a long day. Tomorrow will be another one. I think I’m going to go pound my muscles on some hot rocks.”

“Mm-hm,” Leliana singsonged teasingly. 

“Is that what the young people are calling it these days?” Wynne deadpanned. 

The tips of Alistair’s ears turned red. Thora leaned over and whispered in one of them, “Give me an hour, please?” He nodded, turning to watch her as she walked into the bedroom, unable to conceal how worried he was about her. He’d rarely seen her quite this drained, and she’d only picked at her food.

Every minute of the hour seemed like an eternity to Alistair. He fretted and paced and twiddled his thumbs and sighed loudly until Wynne finally looked up from the book of dwarven mythology she’d found. Leliana had turned in already, but Wynne always claimed she needed less sleep than the rest of them. “Alistair, will you please sit down?” Wynne snapped. “You’re pacing like a nervous—“ Abruptly she broke off whatever she was going to say.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing. Just, really, please sit. Or something.” But Wynne’s eyes didn’t leave him as he sat down, and she appeared to be thinking hard. Not that he noticed.

At last the endless hour was up. He walked to the door, knocking softly. 

“Yes, Alistair,” her soft voice said, and he opened the door. He stepped in and closed it again behind him before turning to look at her. His breath rushed out of him in a whimper of desire.

As he had imagined, it was glorious. She stood there with the red-gold hair, freshly washed and dried, flowing down her shoulders and over her breasts and nearly brushing the floor. She wore nothing else, and her face was flushed, her eyes shy and hesitant. Some part of him whispered that she looked almost bridal. 

“Maker,” he gasped. 

She swallowed hard. “It— It’s not silly, is it?”

“Are you joking?” he asked, when he thought he could speak again.

“I knew you wanted to see,” she said, clearly nervous. “I wanted to do something to show you how much— I couldn’t have gotten through this day if you hadn’t been there.”

“Really? You didn’t seem to need me at all,” he said, trying not to let his voice betray his doubts.

She took a step toward him, the hair moving with her like molten copper. “I’m sorry if I can’t show it more. It’s … not what I am. But I do need you. You are—the sky and the trees and the water. All the things the surface is that Orzammar isn’t. Without you …” Her eyes filled with tears. “Without you, everywhere I went would be like the Deep Roads.”

He went to her then, going down on his knees to hold her. She clung to him, burying her face in his neck, and he felt her shake as she began to cry, jerking as though each tear was being torn out of her. Rocking back on his heels, he carried her with him, holding her small body tenderly until the storm had passed.

When the paroxysm of weeping had left her, Thora sat back to look at him. He proffered a mostly clean handkerchief. As she wiped her eyes and nose, she smiled weakly. “This isn’t quite how I had imagined this.”

“Me, either,” he said. “And trust me, I’ve imagined it quite a few ways.”

She laughed, and Alistair felt his heart overflow. Tears and laughter all in the same minute, all for him? He was the luckiest man in the world.

Standing, he lifted her in his arms, the beautiful waterfall of hair falling down over his shoulder. He laid her down carefully on the bed, the mass of red-gold hair spread out around her. Thora looked up at him in total trust, the shadows gone from her eyes for the first time since they’d come to this place. Alistair gazed at her in wonder—all this, his? His to hold, his to love, his to touch? He swallowed, his throat suddenly gone dry, and knelt down next to the bed. He ran one hand slowly down her body, from shoulder to ankle, feeling her tremble at his touch. 

“Promise me,” he whispered.

Thora held her breath, praying to the Stone that he would ask her something she could honor. 

“Promise me you’ll never let your hair down for anyone else.”

She exhaled, relieved. “I promise. Only for you. Always,” she said in tiny gasps, as he kissed her belly, his tongue laving the soft skin. Her hands tangled in his hair.

“Maker’s breath,” he said, taking a handful of the silky strands and nuzzling them. They smelled tangy and sweet at the same time, like Orzammarian metal and surface flowers mingled. His love and need for her overwhelmed him. Quickly he stripped off his clothes and lay down next to her. Thora shifted on top of him, enveloping him in the soft curtain of her hair. And it was … glorious.


	7. More Hoops

Thora closed the door to the suite behind her and sighed, leaning heavily back against it. She was so tired, and felt so nauseated. Something about dwarven food just wasn’t sitting well with her. She hadn’t had an appetite since she’d arrived in Orzammar. And the meeting with Harrowmont had been draining. They’d cleaned out the carta for him, they should have been ready to go to the Assembly. (Of course, his first response to the news had been to regret that she’d had to kill all the carta soldiers. Made her wonder if he’d had some use for them.) 

Instead, they’d have to prove the Ancestors’ favor for him once again, performing another task none of the Assembly was man enough for. Excuse after excuse after excuse, she thought. Why couldn’t the nug-humping Assembly ever just get down to business and make a sodding decision? She wished for a darkspawn to smash. Well, there’d be plenty of that coming up, she thought. At least there was some bright side to this whole mess. 

“What’s the trouble, my dear?” Wynne asked, looking up from her book. It appeared to be a volume on the Orzammarian legal code.

“Wynne, how can you read that drivel and still be … alive?” Thora asked, frowning. There was nothing more boring than the legal code. 

“Well, technically, I’m not,” Wynne said, with a small secretive smile. Thora walked closer, and caught sight of the book hidden inside the book. 

“Oh, Wynne,” she said. “ _The Elbrins of Hazen Thaig_? That is some trash, right there.” She grinned at her friend. 

“People who pry into what other people are reading can’t be surprised by what they find,” Wynne said primly, but her cheeks were red. “Anyway, I believe you’re ducking my question.”

“Truthfully, I am.” Thora sighed again. 

“I take it we’re not rushing off to the Assembly to crown the new king.” 

“Hardly. Instead, we’re rushing off into the Deep Roads to find the last living Paragon and try to get her support.” Thora slowly began knocking her forehead against the stone wall. “I swear, if I didn’t need someone to authorize the dwarven troops to fight the Archdemon, I would just leave and let the whole place crumble in on itself.”

“We knew it wasn’t going to be easy.” Wynne’s gaze rested sympathetically on the younger woman. She was clearly exhausted and … not quite herself. Was it more than just being back in Orzammar? the mage wondered.

“We should have guessed there would be hoop after hoop,” Thora agreed. “But I had hoped for better, I admit.” She looked around. “Where is everyone?”

“Leliana is having a nap, I believe. Alistair … well, I think he’s in your room, but I haven’t heard a peep out of him for a while. Which is odd.”

“It is, isn’t it? I think I’ll just go check on him.”

“Have fun, dear,” Wynne called, turning her attention back to her trashy novel. Thora shook her head. You just never knew, did you?

Alistair had found the only human-sized chair in the suite. He was sprawled out in it, one leg hooked over the arm, deeply engrossed in a book. It was a surprisingly hot look. Once Thora had caught her breath, she asked, “Are you Wynne today?”

“A person could do worse,” he remarked absently, turning a page.

“Whatcha reading?” She crossed the room to the chair. Alistair lifted his arms and she climbed in underneath to curl up in his lap. Tucking her head into his shoulder, she read a few lines. “The history of Paragon Aeducan?”

“I thought I’d see where you came from. I can see why he was a Paragon.”

“You know those histories are commissioned by the Houses, right? It’s not unheard of for a historian to be put to death for publishing something bad about a Paragon—at least if the House is in power at the time.”

“So how much of this is accurate?” 

“That one’s not too bad, I think. I hear my grandfather—he’s the one who commissioned the history—was a pretty reasonable fellow.” He turned another page. Thora found it interesting to watch him as he read. He’d told her how much he enjoyed the education he’d received as a Templar trainee, but as he focused on the book she was vividly reminded of the sharp brain that lay behind the wisecracks and insecurities. 

A wave of weariness washed over her. She’d like to lie down and sleep for a year, she thought, leaning back against Alistair’s arm with a sigh and closing her eyes.

Alistair closed the book, looking at her with some concern. After a moment, he nodded in comprehension. “More hoops, then?”

She grunted, not bothering to open her eyes. 

“Let me guess. We’re going down to the Deep Roads to take back the dwarven kingdoms, uh, quadruple-handed, and if at that point any of us are still alive, he’ll consider giving us some troops?”

“Not far off. We’re going down to the Deep Roads to find Branka, the only living Paragon—who is a cranky pain in the ass, may I add, and in the unlikely event she’s still alive is even more unlikely to give a nug’s left leg about who ends up on the throne. But we’re supposed to somehow manage to get her to weigh in on Harrowmont’s side.” When he didn’t say anything, she added, “What you said might well be easier.”

He tossed the book over the arm of the chair and onto the floor. In one easy motion, he got up, lifting her with him, and carried her over to the bed. “You seem so tired,” he said. “I’ve never seen you like this before.” As she stretched out on her stomach, he put his big hands on her shoulders and started working on the knots there. “Is it just … Orzammar?”

“Partly.” She sighed as his hands found a particularly sore spot and worked the tensions there. “I haven’t been sleeping well, either.”

“I know. Something about being here makes the nightmares a lot more vivid,” he said. Neither of them had gotten much sleep since their arrival.

“Too close to the darkspawn,” she murmured. “I bet the Deep Roads will be worse yet.”

He made a small sound of agreement. 

“I’m just so tired, and I want to get out of here,” Thora sighed.

“Strange,” he murmured, working his way down her shoulder blades. “You’re the one who’s actually from here, and you’re the one having the hardest time being off the surface.”

She moaned as his thumbs pressed into her back. “Uh-huh.” Alistair shifted to his side, trying to find a comfortable position to keep rubbing her back without falling off the bed. It was a fairly obvious comment on their relationship, she thought bitterly, that a chair that fit him made her feel like a small child, and a bed that fit her made him seem like a giant. “What is it you see in me?” she asked suddenly.

His hands stopped for a moment, working on a muscle near her spine, then continued. “What brought that on?” he asked.

“It’s just … I’m a dwarf. Despite my preference for the surface, Orzammar is really all I know. You’re a human—the surface is your world. Don’t you— Wouldn’t you be more … comfortable with someone from your world?”

He knelt down next to the bed, looking at her face. “What would ever make you think that?”

“I just—All these complications, and the furniture doesn’t fit, and I don’t fit, and … I just don’t know!” she said. 

Alistair stroked the side of her face softly. “You’re exhausted.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” The words were muffled in the pillows.

“Look at me,” he said. His voice was firm, demanding her attention. Thora sat up, looking at his beloved face, which was completely serious for once. Alistair took her hands. “You are my world,” he said. “Where you came from doesn’t matter, except that it’s part of you. If you were from … Orlais, it would be the same. To me, you come straight from the Maker, made especially for me.”

Thora’s eyes smarted with tears, then suddenly she grinned. “That would be a lot sweeter if I actually believed in the Maker.”

He grinned back, relieved that he seemed to have gotten her out of that defeated mood. “Way to step on my beautiful moment, there.”

“Sorry.” She put her arms around his neck, hugging him. 

He held her for a few moments. But he’d seen the shadows back in her eyes, so he couldn’t quite let it go. “So is that it, then? Sleep and politics and the unlikely pairing of an Andrastean ex-Templar with a dwarven warrior princess?” He felt her tense again, and she broke the embrace to look at him.

“Alistair,” she said.

“Uh-oh.”

“Alistair, I think we have to talk about the Landsmeet—“

“NO!” 

She jumped at his tone. His eyes were blazing with a different kind of fire than the one she was used to seeing. “But—“

“I said no,” he said more quietly. “We’ve been over everything we need to go over. ‘Duty or death’, remember? Pretty much says it all. But since neither duty nor death has come to pass, we’re not going to worry about it until one of them does.”

“But don’t you—“

“No, I don’t. And neither do you.” He closed his eyes, running a hand over his face. “Look,” he said. “If I have to—you know—then that means the end of us. I get that. And I get that you think I have to. But I don’t think I have to. I don’t even think I should, and I won’t until it’s absolutely necessary. And I don’t see any reason to make ourselves miserable now just in case we have to be then.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “If that’s the way you want it.”

He studied her for a moment, then his eyes darkened with the familiar fire. “No,” he murmured. He pushed her back onto the bed and settled his big body on top of her small one, feeling her arch against him. “This is the way I want it.” His mouth closed on hers, and suddenly she felt much better.


	8. Broodmother

They were exiting the Dead Trenches, still covered in the gray guts of the Broodmother, when Thora realized she was pregnant. The nausea, the exhaustion, the strange stretchy sensations in her abdomen all mixed with the horror they’d just seen, and a shudder wracked her.

Turning to her party, she said, “We’re going to take half an hour. Try and clean up, deal with … what we just saw … and maybe have a rest and something to eat.” Oghren opened his mouth to protest, but she gave him her most level glare and he shut it again. 

Thora didn’t do her usual rounds, checking on her team’s well-being. She sank down in a corner of the rock, by herself, chewing somewhat unwillingly on a piece of cracker that seemed like dust in her mouth. Pregnant, she thought numbly. Three hours ago, that would have seemed like … well, still very complicated and very difficult to process news. But now she had seen what had become of Laryn. After being fed darkspawn, after eating her own kin, her own husband, she’d become a gross grey mass, spewing out new darkspawn. Thora dimly remembered Laryn as a pretty dwarf who had liked nice clothes and wanted lots of babies. Well, she got them, Thora thought with a very disturbed giggle. 

Alistair heard the sound and his head snapped around. He studied her. She seemed pale and shell-shocked—then again, they all did. But that laugh had sounded nearly hysterical. The chains were up, though. He could tell. If he went and sat next to her in this mood, she’d freeze him solid. He’d content himself with watching for the moment. And looking forward to getting out of these benighted Deep Roads and the sodding hell out of Orzammar. He put his head down on his knees and was asleep in seconds.

Wynne, also, had heard the laugh, but had a much more educated guess at the cause of the younger woman’s hysteria. She couldn’t go and talk to her about it now, though—this conversation would require privacy. But she could imagine the images Thora’s mind must be painting, and she felt a bit nauseous herself in sympathy.

Oghren had downed a mug of ale and was now snoring loudly enough to be heard by every darkspawn between there and Kal’Sharock.

Thora’s brain was heading into overload. It was alternating between visions of a beautiful baby boy with his father’s nose, and visions of the hideous creature they had left behind. Would carrying a child whose parents both had darkspawn-tainted blood turn her into the same thing Laryn had become? Would the baby be all right? Would she even be able to carry the baby? Would the baby be some kind of hideous darkspawn creature? Questions crowded on top of questions, overwhelming her. A tear rolled down her cheek and she sniffed softly. 

Exhausted as he was, Alistair heard that sniff in the midst of one of his most horrific nightmares yet. His head jerked up. “Right,” he said, largely to himself, getting up. “No more sleeping in the Deep Roads. And the sooner we get out of here the better.” He took a cloth from his pack, moistened it with some of the remaining water, and went over to sit next to his love. His hand reached out, gently tipping up her chin, and he dabbed the cloth gently at the streaks of dirt and guts on her face until it was clean. “Better?” he murmured.

She smiled at him, although her eyes were more heavily shadowed than before. He wished there was more he could offer her. He could only imagine the effect seeing the Broodmother would have to have on any woman, much less one who already carried the darkspawn taint inside herself. Putting an arm around her shoulders—an awkward move, when they were both still in full armor, but it seemed called for—he kissed her gently on the forehead. They sat there for the rest of the break period, lost in their own dark broodings.


	9. To Hold on to the Night

The night air was cool and refreshing as they sat around the campfire. They’d been traveling through the Frostbacks for a couple of days, none of them sorry to have left the Deep Roads or Orzammar itself behind. They’d found the Paragon, gone mad from too much time in the Deep Roads, and she’d been killed by her own husband, Oghren. The continuously drunk dwarf had joined them, him and a bottomless supply of ale that he got from … somewhere. He’d felt there was nothing left for him in Orzammar without Branka. They’d been successful in putting Lord Harrowmont on the throne, and then Thora’s brother Bhelen had attacked the Assembly and they’d had to kill him. Alistair had made sure to reach the mad prince in time to strike the fatal blow and save Thora from becoming an actual kinslayer. Finally they’d left, with King Harrowmont’s assurance that the dwarves would be on hand to fight the Blight, and the additional pledge of support of the Legion of the Dead. The Legion was Orzammar’s deepest line of defense against the darkspawn, each member pledged to die in battle in the Deep Roads. They’d made the unusual promise to fight on the surface in honor of Thora’s hard work in the Deep Roads, an honor she felt deep pride in. 

Now all was quiet in the camp. The time in Orzammar had taken its toll on all of them, and tonight it seemed all they could do was sit and stare into the flames.

After a few moments, Leliana slipped into her tent and retrieved her lyre. She spent several minutes tuning it, then launched into a soft, plaintive melody. 

Oghren spat into the fire. “That’s not what we need, girl. Don’t you sodding know any real tunes?”

Leliana looked at him, then smiled wickedly. She started strumming at a lively cadence, then began singing, “Oh, I knew a lass in Orzammar, the hairiest lass both near and far, and when you got her on the floor, you found a nug was there before.”

Alistair choked on the beef jerky he was eating. Oghren clapped Leliana on the back with a hearty roar, and Thora couldn’t hide a grin. “Leliana, where did you learn that little gem? I haven’t heard that one since Trian and his second got drunk and decided to have a contest to see who knew the bawdiest songs.” 

Leliana giggled. “I’m not sure. I might have learned it the time I tried a thimbleful of real dwarven ale … but I don’t remember anything after that until I woke up two weeks later dressed in only my shoes and a towel.” Everyone looked at her, and she shrugged. “You know I wasn’t always a Chantry sister.” She worked at a string for a moment, then asked, “Anyone have any requests?”

Blushing a little, but grinning too, Wynne leaned over and asked a question. Leliana’s eyes widened. She giggled and struck up another tune Thora hadn’t heard in years, and Wynne held out a hand to Oghren. The dwarf barked with laughter, but got to his feet rather unsteadily. Taking Wynne’s hand, he put her fingers in his mouth. She put the other hand on her own backside, and the two of them proceeded to go through the steps of a particularly salacious dwarven folk dance. Alistair was beet red, nearly apoplectic watching his adopted grandmother perform such a … suggestive dance. Thora was blushing a bit herself, and Leliana was laughing so hard she could hardly keep the tune.

Finally the two finished dancing. They sat down, both winded. Oghren cackled. “By the Stone, you seem like a sodding schoolteacher, but underneath your knickers must be on fire.” He nudged the mage. “Any chance ol’ Oghren could get a little … singed?” Wynne, her composure nearly regained, merely stared at him, one eyebrow raised. Oghren shook his head. “Well, all right, but if you want any of Oghren Junior, you better get it quick. He doesn’t wait around.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Wynne said drily.

“Anyone else?” Leliana asked. “Not that I know how any of you could top that.”

“I bet you could, little girl. Or you could top something else,” Oghren grunted. Then he fell over the log he’d been sitting on, and lay stretched full-length on the ground, snoring deafeningly.

“One down,” Thora murmured. She looked around the camp. It wouldn’t be long before they’d be in Redcliffe, then heading back to Denerim for the Landsmeet. These nights together around the campfire wouldn’t last much longer, and she knew she would miss them. Despite the dirt and the cold and the food all tasting of woodsmoke.

Lohengrin sighed in his sleep, rolling onto his back. Morrigan was hunched over next to her own fire, murmuring over the grimoire in her hand.

Thora looked at the three remaining around the fire with her. “You know, the three of you mean more to me than my brothers ever did,” she said softly. “I can’t believe how lucky I’ve been to have all of you with me through this.”

Alistair put his arm around her. “Same here,” he said. “I thought nothing could compare with how I felt being with the other Grey Wardens … but you all feel like the family I never had.”

“I am glad I left the Chantry to come with you,” said Leliana. “I have grown very close to you all.”

Wynne stood, her gentle smile shining down on them. “My dears,” she said. “I have been training young people for … more years than you have been alive. But I have never met any as exceptional as the three of you. And now,” she said more briskly, “I believe I have shown enough of my less dignified sides tonight, and I will take these old bones off to bed.”

“Wynne, you know very well that you’re actually younger than all of us,” Alistair said, getting to his feet to kiss the mage’s hand.

“Ah, Alistair.” The mage looked at him with an affectionate smile. Then she headed for her tent.

Leliana got up as well. “My friends,” she said softly. “My brother and sister.” 

“Good night, Leliana.”

The bard tucked her lyre under her arm and went to bed, leaving Alistair and Thora by the fire. He sat down again, putting his arm around the dwarf. She leaned into his chest, and they sat there for a long time, trying to hold on to the night and the fire and the companionship of the people they loved.


	10. His Own Tent

The addition of Arl Eamon’s tent had altered the configuration of the campsite. Alistair hoped it would mask, at least for a little while, the additional alteration he was making. But when a shadow fell on the tent stake he was hammering into the ground, Alistair looked up. She had her arms crossed, and she was just … looking at him. She didn’t look angry, or hurt, she was just waiting.

He remembered the days before they were together, when just being near her could reduce him to a stammering mass of nerves. He felt something like that right now, but for a far less pleasurable reason. “Um,” he said.

Thora studied him for a moment. “This is a new development,” she said cautiously.

He looked down at the tent stake. For his own tent, which hadn’t been put up in … months. “I, er …” he began again, desperately.

“Hey,” she said, her voice softening at his obvious distress, hunkering down next to him. “This is me. Talk to me.” 

“I don’t want you to be hurt,” he muttered.

“Yes, I can see that. That’s why you decided to put up your own tent—which I presume you intend to sleep in—without talking to me about it,” she said with biting sarcasm. “Unless you merely felt we needed a change of interior scenery, I can’t imagine why you would do that.” 

“It’s … ah, it’s just that Arl Eamon’s with us now,” he said desperately. “I … well, I haven’t spent much time with him since I was 10, and …”

“You think he can’t tell you’ve grown up? Because you hardly look like a 10-year-old. Although sometimes you act like one.” She eyed him up and down. Alistair couldn’t tell if she was angry or confused or what. Truthfully, neither could she.

His mouth opened and closed several times. How could he tell her that he was so afraid of losing her that he had a hard time being with her at all? It didn’t even make sense to him, put that way. He wanted to touch her, to hold her, to tell her—and himself—that everything would be all right. But he wouldn’t believe it, she wouldn’t believe it, and in her present mood she wouldn’t even accept it. “I— I’m just not comfortable, you know … sharing a tent with a woman. In front of the Arl,” he clarified. Since he’d been comfortable enough all this time. 

“So now that we’re with the Arl, there’s no more, um, being together?” Her cheeks turned pink. She wasn’t really any more comfortable talking about physical intimacy than he was, a fact he found both surprising and endearing. 

“No!” he said quickly, then more calmly, “No, we can still … be together. Just not so obviously, is all.”

Thora’s brown eyes studied him seriously. She believed he was truly uncomfortable sharing a bed with her in front of the Arl, who was the closest thing to a father he had, other than Duncan. Duncan probably wouldn’t have minded, she thought with amusement. He’d always struck her as a practical man—a ‘do your duty and when it’s done do what you want’ type. The Arl might be more bound by convention. But she could see the fear in Alistair’s eyes, and she knew this was the beginning, that he was starting to distance himself, slowly but surely. It was her own fault, she knew that, but that didn’t make it easier to handle. Thora reached out and put her hand over his, stilling the hammer he was using on the tent stake. “So, um, if you’re all done here, would you like to help me … fetch some water?”

“Water?” He looked over at the full buckets sitting next to the fire.

“Well, you never know when you might … need some,” she said, quirking an eyebrow at him suggestively.

“Oh! Water.” He swallowed as her fingers gently caressed his wrist. “Definitely. Might need quite a bit,” he said. One big hand reached out, touching the coils of braids at the back of her head. He wanted to ask her to take it down, but he knew what a production that would be. And he didn’t know if he deserved to ask.

As they made their way through the trees, looking for a suitably private spot, both of them felt the bittersweet sting—from now on, every time they were together might well be the last time. Who could blame them if that made it even hotter than usual?


	11. Questions

“Have you told him?” Wynne’s voice broke into Thora’s reverie.

“Told him what?” she asked, turning to look at the mage. 

Wynne fixed her with a glare. “Don’t be coy with me, young lady.” 

They were more than halfway to Denerim, each step making Thora’s boots feel heavier. Already things were different. Now that Arl Eamon was traveling with them, he and Alistair spent much of their time together. Thora told herself she didn’t mind, that they deserved a chance to catch up, but even when she and Alistair were with each other, things weren’t quite right. Too many words loomed dark and unsaid in their path. And he continued to sleep in his own tent. Between the spread of the Blight, the looming bulk of the battle ahead, and the ever-present worries about the baby, Thora’s nightmares were worse than ever, and they always seemed to end in tears now, as she woke to find herself far from the arms that had always offered such comfort.

She sighed, looking at Wynne. “I’m glad you know,” she said wearily.

“You look it,” Wynne said sarcastically.

The corner of Thora’s mouth quirked up. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m exhausted. And terrified.”

“Terrified about …” Wynne looked pointedly at Thora’s middle.

“You saw—her.”

“The Broodmother.”

“Laryn. I knew her, did I tell you that? She was … pretty. Foolish. The last person you would expect.” Thora stopped walking, looking at Wynne. The anguish was naked on her face. “Wynne, will I end up like that? Will my … you know … be a monster?”

Wynne sighed, looking off into the distance. “My dear, I don’t know. Without books, papers, things to study, I cannot tell you.” Thora nodded—she’d expected as much—and started walking again. Matching her steps, Wynne continued, “I don’t think so, however.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Do you want the practical answer, or the foolish, romantic one?” Wynne smiled fondly at the dwarf.

“Oh, start with the second one. I’m a little short on foolish romance these days.” Tears stung at the back of Thora’s eyes as they rested on the strong back of the man walking ahead of her.

“He’s doing what he feels he must, distancing himself now.”

“I know that, Wynne. I know him better than anyone. Even you. We’ve talked about it. And I’m the one causing the trouble, because I can’t lie to him and promise I won’t make him king. I intend to make him king, and I think he should be—a position he disagrees with, may I add. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

They walked in silence for a few moments, then Wynne said, “Perhaps it’s the young girl in me speaking, but I can’t believe that a being created out of the great love you and Alistair have for each other could be evil.”

“That is foolish and romantic,” Thora agreed. “But I like the young girl in you. Let’s see more of her.”

Wynne chuckled softly. “The practical answer is this: despite the taint in the blood, you are both normal young people. Well, exceptional, but normal physically,” she amended, smiling fondly at Alistair’s back. “I think your … procreation has probably been normal as well.” She glanced sidewise at Thora, amused at the faint tinge of red that colored the dwarf’s cheeks. “I would expect that if the taint is going to cause problems, it will be early on. Soon. If the baby survives the first few months of the pregnancy, it will probably be fine.” She paused for a moment, then said, more harshly, “I could be wrong.”

“Have you had a lot of experience?”

“A fair amount. In my travels, my skills as a healer have been sought many times. In birth. In conception. In preventing or terminating unwanted conception.” Her voice was deceptively casual, but she glanced meaningfully at Thora.

“No.” 

“All right. I just wanted to … check.”

“If I knew that things would go … badly,” Thora said, “then maybe I could. But without knowing? No. It’s— This—“

“Is all you’ll have to cling to,” Wynne finished with great sympathy. Thora nodded wordlessly. “Will you tell him now?”

“How can I? You know as well as I do that there is nothing in the world he wants more than this. He would never let me put myself in danger. He’d have me locked up, if that’s what it took. And he would absolutely never allow himself to be put on the throne, far from … us.” She took a great shuddering breath. “I suppose that’s one advantage of the distance between us. He’s far less likely to notice anything unusual.”

“Have you given any thought to when you will tell him?”

“Not until after the Archdemon has been slain. And that is far enough ahead to think for now.” They walked in silence, then Thora said, “Wynne?”

“Yes, my dear.”

“Will you stay with me? You know, until … after …?”

“Of course. I will see you both safely through the delivery. There is nowhere else I would rather be.” The two women smiled at each other as they marched toward their destiny.


	12. Infinite Moment

As the two swords slid into Arl Howe’s body, one from the back and one from the front, time slowed. Each movement seemed to take forever, as Alistair withdrew Duncan’s sword from Arl Howe’s back and Thora withdrew Maric’s from his stomach. As the Arl slowly—oh, so slowly—crumpled to his knees, their eyes met over his falling body.

Thora could hear each pounding beat of her heart in her ears. She could see resignation, sorrow, and pride mixed together in the depths of Alistair’s eyes on hers. And she knew that it was over. There would be no more long nights of laughter; the arms that had always offered such warmth were closed to her now. The warrior would remain at her side, flinty and hard and dependable as the very Stone, but the lover was gone. And the darkness seemed a lot closer than it had a moment ago.

Each breath felt endless to Alistair. As his eyes held hers, he read the determination there, the sadness and the duty mingling, and he knew that there would be no more fighting the inevitable. The throne loomed before him, the curse of his father’s blood finally coming to pass. He could not escape it—she wouldn’t let him, even if his honor would have. He would never again be able to wrap himself in the spun silk of her hair, feeling her very essence opening up to him. The future loomed before him, long and cold and lonely. And to think he’d once looked on thirty years as short.

There would be words to say, of course. Decisions to be made, battles to be fought. But in the brief, infinite moment before sheathing their swords, their parting had come.


	13. Matters of Armor

As had been arranged previously, they all met at the door of Arl Eamon’s estate before going to the Landsmeet together. Wynne and Leliana were there already, waiting, when Alistair appeared, clomping down the hallway with a dark look on his face. 

The night before, there had been a long discussion between the young warrior and the Arl, one that had grown quite heated, until Thora strode into the study and into the middle of the fray. A few choice words from her, directed at Alistair, and the argument had ended, but Alistair had not been in a particularly good mood afterward. Neither had Thora, Wynne had noticed. But where Alistair was grumpy, Thora seemed thoughtful, her mind far away dwelling in places she clearly didn’t want to go.

Today, watching Alistair as he came down the hallway, Wynne understood what the arguing had been about. Instead of the red steel chainmail he’d been wearing all this time, he was arrayed completely in Cailan’s golden armor. It was a somewhat gaudy set, Wynne thought, much more suited to the more flamboyant Cailan, and she’d liked Alistair better in the old armor, but she could understand why Eamon and Thora had wanted him to wear this set. It was a quite obvious reminder of his heritage and his familial connection to the dead king. In it, he looked far more strikingly like his father and brother than she had ever noticed before. And even the scowl he wore made him seem somewhat older and more kingly. There could no longer be any doubt about it—Thora was positioning him so that the Landsmeet would see him as a legitimate candidate for the throne. Wynne’s heart hurt for the two young people who were such a perfect complement for each other and who were about to be separated by their own actions and honor.

“Where is she?” Alistair growled as he joined the two women.

“I’m sure she’ll be here soon,” Wynne said soothingly. 

“She’d better,” he said. “I want to get this over with.”

They stood in silence for another couple of minutes until they heard the clank of armor on the floor. To everyone’s surprise, Thora had changed armor as well. Instead of the silverite set she had worn, she was now dressed in the black armor of Orzammar’s Legion of the Dead, the team of dwarven warriors who devoted their lives to fighting the darkspawn in the Deep Roads. It suited her, the color setting off her bright hair, and Wynne noted shrewdly that the Legion armor seemed roomier about the middle. Thora was probably entering her fourth month, Wynne judged, and would not be able to hide the pregnancy much longer.

“What is that?” Alistair asked.

“It’s the Legion of the Dead armor,” Thora said, looking at him as though he was the only person in the room. “I thought, as an exile, I would have ended up with the Legion of the Dead—it’s where most of Orzammar’s castoffs go. I am a dwarf,” she said, as though admitting the fact gave her great pain. It probably did, thought Wynne, being the biggest reason why she and Alistair would have to part once he was king, and especially given Thora’s distaste for the rigid rules and political infighting of dwarven society. “And I am sworn to fight the darkspawn. Those are things that must be remembered, today and every day until the Archdemon is dead. Besides,” she said, taking a small step away from Alistair, “it will look less obvious if we’re both in different armor than what people are used to seeing.”

“It would look less obvious if you’d let me look like me,” he said bitterly.

“You will. But later. If— Once the Landsmeet confirms you as king, then we can work on building up your reputation as an individual. Today, they need to look at you and see your bloodline.” She didn’t look at him as she spoke.

“You’re so sodding practical,” he hissed. 

Thora flinched as though he’d hit her. It felt a bit like that, actually, she thought. She didn’t think he’d ever spoken to her quite that viciously before. While she hated every second of it, she hoped his anger would make it easier for him to accept the inevitable. “I wish I didn’t have to be,” she said, so softly he almost didn’t hear her. But he clung to his anger—it was the only weapon he had against the implacable calmness that was bent on tearing his world apart.


	14. The Grand Gesture

She felt him approaching down the hall before she heard the clang of his boots on the stone floor. Thora steeled herself, straightening her shoulders, knowing what was coming. When the door opened, all the others turned to look, but she was already waiting in the middle of the room, standing her ground. Waiting to see how he would say it. They both knew that it had already come, but the words had to be said. To make it official.

Alistair knew she would be there waiting for him. He’d seen the carefully concealed sorrow in her eyes when she announced his name as Ferelden’s next king in the Landsmeet—he knew her too well for her to hide it from him. And he’d seen the love and the pride in her when he’d stepped up to take on his destiny. Now he saw the tension in her face beneath the habitual serenity. He walked into the room, noticing that the others all kept their distance, and he stopped in front of her.

“So,” she said, after a long painful moment. “Duty, then.”

He shrugged. “The Blight’s not over yet. It could be death, yet.”

“Let’s look on the bright side, shall we?”

“That is the bright side.” His anger and bitterness gave the words a bite she hadn’t heard in a long time.

“You know I had to.”

“You know I didn’t want to.”

She bit her lip, looking away. “Ferelden needs you.”

“My father’s blood, you mean. I’m just the vessel.”

She looked back at him, her face flushed and her eyes sparking with anger. “You dare to think I would have put you on the throne, ruined both our lives, for your father’s blood? Ferelden needs you. Your heart, your strength, your understanding of people, your combat experience: everything you are.”

Alistair blinked. He hadn’t expected that. Against his will, he was forced to see her point, although he’d never thought of himself that way. He gave a great sigh. “So this is it.”

Swallowing, Thora asked, “Does it … have to be now? We could … wait. Until after the Blight.” It was as close to begging as she could come, and he knew what it cost her.

“I can’t,” he said. He closed his eyes. “If I don’t do it now—I don’t know if I can do it at all. It’s done now. I can’t run from it any longer.”

They stared helplessly at each other. Then Thora reached up behind her head, pulling out pins.

“Wha— What are you doing? If you— I can’t,” he stammered. She couldn’t expect him to do this if she took her hair down. She just couldn’t. That wouldn’t be playing fair. And it would be utterly unlike her. But she was shaking her head at him. She gave him the special smile that was only for him, but the sorrow was back. Then the pins were out and the braids swung free of their coils, falling down her back. She drew her dagger.

Dimly Alistair was aware of the attention of the others suddenly focused on them, of Wynne holding Leliana back. Did the bard think Thora was going to hurt him? It didn’t matter, because Thora was holding the dagger—Duncan’s dagger, Alistair realized—out to him hilt-first.

“You need to do this for me,” she said, turning. And that’s when he noticed that the braids, instead of starting at the base of her neck as usual, were tied off about two inches away from her neck. She took the heavy braids in her hand, holding them out away from her head. “Make it quick, please.”

He swallowed. “You really want me to do this?”

Her tongue came out, wetting her lips. “I promised,” she said with difficulty. “I will keep my promise.” Then she looked at him, and he remembered the day by the waterfall. “You’ve done it already. Or I have. Depending on how you look at it. … I love you. You know nothing will ever change that, right?”

“Right,” Alistair whispered hoarsely. “And I love you. Always.”

“There will never be anyone else,” she said, the tears trembling on her lashes. “This way … we can’t forget.”

“But—“ He took a shuddering breath, holding back his own tears. “But it’s who you are, it’s all the things that are under the surface that make you … you.”

“No,” she said gently, swiping the back of her hand across her eyes. “It’s who you made me. You’re the only person I’ve ever known who could make me feel … the way my hair feels. Unbound.”

“That’s the most wonderful compliment any man could receive,” he said, his voice rasping against the constriction in his throat. “I wish …”

“So do I,” she said, and she gave him her special smile once more. 

He realized that he would never warm himself in the sunshine of that smile again, and he thought of the long nights in their tent, of the tangy sweet smell of her hair all around him. The anger and the grief boiled up in him, and he struck out with the dagger, cleaving through the hair above the braids in one swift motion. Dropping the dagger, he turned on his heel, all but fleeing the room.

Thora was left standing in the middle of the room holding the limp remnants of her hair. “The problem with the grand gesture,” she said softly to no one in particular, “is that you never know what to do with it afterward.”


	15. A Gift

He sat by the campfire, staring gloomily into the flames. It was a camp just like so many others … but so quiet. There was no joking, no laughter, and little talking. Even Oghren had taken his mug and stolen away to be alone with it. All of which suited Alistair just fine—the events of the day, the Landsmeet and the scene with Thora afterward—had left him with little to say.

Alistair watched as Thora made her usual rounds. They seemed perfunctory tonight, though. She didn’t look as interested in what everyone had to say as usual. And—oh, by the Maker—she was coming his way. He clenched his jaw against all the things he wanted to say—to do—and all the reasons why it might not be so bad if he did.

She crouched down next to him. “I want to talk to you.”

“Didn’t we already say everything we needed to say?”

“I want to know if you’re going to be all right.”

“No. Not really. But when did my happiness ever matter?”

“Welcome to royalty,” she said grimly. And he could have kicked himself for forgetting—again—that she didn’t exactly have reason to appreciate being of royal blood either. 

“I guess being a king isn’t supposed to be easy. Neither is being a Grey Warden.”

“No.”

“Can we stop talking about this now? Thinking about you is … too painful. And too tempting,” he added in a whisper. Neither of them moved a muscle, but the hunger that arced between them was almost palpable. Alistair got to his feet, leaving her there as he walked back to his tent. In the firelight coming through the open tent flap, he saw a small package and piece of vellum tucked into the top of his open pack. He lit a candle and slowly opened the package. It was his mother’s amulet, and it was now threaded on a narrow chain of some kind. But he couldn’t wear it around his neck, he thought, much as he might like to. It was too fragile. Confused, he unfolded the paper, his fingers tracing the bold dark writing that he’d never seen before but would have recognized as hers anywhere.

_My dearest Alistair,  
This gift comes from the hearts of four women who love you. The mother who left it to you; the grandmother who enchanted it for you so that it will never break; the sister who crafted the chain; and the lover who gifts you now with the last of what made her worthy of you._

Alistair looked more closely at the chain, his eyes widening when he realized it was made of her hair, finely braided and exquisitely crafted to be both durable and beautiful. Clearly, there was no end to Leliana’s talents. His eyes stung with tears, and he clasped the amulet tightly, feeling the stronger for this symbol of all their love. He turned back to the letter.

_We’ve said it all, time and again, but I’m going to say it one more time: I love you._  
Yours,  
T.

The next morning, when he emerged from his tent, he saw all three of them turn from their camp chores to look at him, and the pleased and proud smiles on their faces when they saw the amulet around his neck. One by one he hugged them, too moved to speak his thanks, but they understood. 

They packed their camp for the last time, and turned their faces toward Redcliffe, ready to end the Blight.


	16. Of Babies

Thora’s heart hammered in her chest as she closed the door behind her. In the room behind her was a nightmare she could never have imagined—Alistair. And Morrigan. In bed together. Not sleeping. And at Thora’s own urging, no less. She clenched her teeth together against the rush of nausea she felt.

“It won’t be as unpleasant as you think,” Morrigan had purred at Alistair, enjoying the moment. Thora felt those words like knives. She’d known someday there would be a queen, some beautiful young human woman … but Morrigan? Tonight? There, on the other side of the door? Performing a ritual that was destined to create a child? It was more than she could stomach. 

It had been surprisingly easy to talk Alistair into the act. (She tried not to think about why that was, whether he’d always secretly been attracted to Morrigan.) He hadn’t even asked about the child, hadn’t asked about the ritual. He’d simply said, “I trust you. I’ll do it.”

Thora felt incredibly guilty, standing there. And sick to her stomach. And ghoulish, listening there for … sounds? She put her hands over her ears. No sounds. Definitely no sounds. She moved away from the door, walking down the hallway. She could feel the heaviness in her belly, where her own child was growing. Wynne thought the baby was probably past the danger point by now and gave it good odds of being born normally. 

Something tugged at the back of Thora’s mind. Something about the baby, she thought, frowning. But what? And then it came to her, and she was running down the hallway to Wynne’s room, pounding on the mage’s door.

“All right, all right, wait a moment,” came the sleepy, impatient voice. Wynne opened the door, blinking at Thora.

“You were sleeping?!” Thora said incredulously. “How can you sleep on a night like this?”

“Someone has to get some sleep,” Wynne said. Her eyes took in Thora’s obvious distress. “What is it, child?”

“Can I come in?” Thora asked. “I can’t … talk about this here in the hallway.”

Wynne opened the door wider, letting the younger woman in. “Clearly there is more going on in the castle tonight than preparation for tomorrow’s battle,” she said.

Thora shook her head, collapsing on Wynne’s bed. “This is the night that will never end,” she groaned. “And apparently neither will the bad news.”

Wynne took a seat in the chair by the window. “Tell me,” she said simply.

“Where to start?” Thora said, staring up at the ceiling. “I suppose first is Riordan’s bombshell, that a Grey Warden has to kill the Archdemon because the Archdemon’s soul leaves its body when it dies, seeking the nearest darkspawn. So if there’s no Grey Warden, a new darkspawn becomes the Archdemon and the Blight goes on. If there’s a Grey Warden, the Archdemon’s essence goes into the Grey Warden, and they both die.”

“Will Riordan do that, then, as he is the oldest?”

“He plans to. But I don’t think it will be him. Maybe I’m just a pessimist, but I think it will have to be one of us.”

“And how do you make that choice?”

“Well, that’s what I thought, too,” Thora said. She gave a bitter little laugh. “But that was before the next hit.” She paused, sitting up and looking seriously at her friend. “And you may not approve of this bit … but it’s done. Or, rather, is,” she caught her breath as a sob snuck up on her, “being done.”

Wynne waited, her eyes never leaving Thora’s face.

“Morrigan.” Wynne’s face hardened, but she said nothing. “She knew—about the Archdemon—and told me she had a ritual. It’s why Flemeth saved us, why she sent Morrigan with us. Morrigan,” and she paused as the great, heaving sobs threatened to take over. “Morrigan will be—is—in bed with Alistair. Right now,” she said, and then had to stop again, holding herself and trying to stop the shaking. She looked back at Wynne’s white face. “The … ritual will create a child. Who will absorb the Archdemon’s essence, and will then become an Old God.”

Wynne contained herself with an obvious effort. “Child, child, child,” she said wearily. “I cannot lecture. I see what this is costing you, and I understand the impossibility of the choice in front of you—sacrificing the life of your child, or that of your child’s father, the man we’ve all gone through so much to put on Ferelden’s throne—but I tremble at the danger inherent in trusting Morrigan in this way.”

“As do I,” Thora said. “But I—I had no choice. And I have trusted her this far. Why else did I allow her to stay with us all this time, if I did not trust her? My instincts tell me that she is telling me the truth. I have listened to them, and it is … I hope … done by now.”

“But here you are,” said Wynne. “Telling me all this.” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes widened. “I see. Because it will not be Morrigan who is closest to the Archdemon at the time of its death. It will be you.”

“Wynne?” Thora’s eyes were wide, desperate and pleading. “Can you protect my baby? Because if you can’t, this is all for nothing and I might as well have chosen to sacrifice myself.”

Wynne stood for a long time, facing out the window, lost in thought. Thora sat on the edge of the bed, unmoving, her eyes glued to the mage’s face, waiting.

At last the older woman turned. “I think I can do it. I will need to do some preparation, but I think there is a way.”

Thora slid to the floor, murmuring something in gratitude.

“My dear,” Wynne said gently. “You are utterly exhausted, mentally and physically. You must get some rest.”

“How can I?”

“You have to try.” Wynne was implacable. 

Thora got up from the floor with some difficulty. “Thank you, Wynne,” she said, putting her arms around the mage’s waist. “Thank you.”

Surprised and touched, the mage hugged the dwarf in return. “I would do much more than this for the two of you, child,” she murmured. 

As Thora exited Wynne’s room, she heard another door close down the hall. Her breath caught in her throat, and she stood frozen in the middle of the hallway, the candlelight from the sconces flickering on her face. As if he could sense her standing there, he lifted his head, and they stared at each other. The naked anguish and guilt on her face struck Alistair like a blow, and although he had been bitter toward her for forcing him into this position, her distress melted his anger. He opened his arms, and she pelted down the hallway, throwing herself into them, feeling the warmth of him enfold her. He held her easily with one arm, as he had so often before. His other hand cradled her head into his shoulder, feeling the short, tousled hair where the two smooth coils of braid had been, as she whispered against his neck, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” over and over again. 

Beyond words, he held her to him, carrying her down the hall to his room. Exhausted in every possible way, they fell asleep still clinging to each other.


	17. The Last Push

The gates of Denerim rose before her, what was left of them. Around them lay the bodies of darkspawn mowed down in their advance. Looking around at her group—the inexorable fighting force that had put Ferelden back together from one end to the other and was about to end the Blight—Thora felt a sudden wave of premature nostalgia. This would be the last time they would all be together, fighting, the last time they could all count on each other. How she would miss them.

Riordan broke into her thoughts. “I would suggest taking Alistair and no more than two others and going to the top of Fort Drakon.”

“You mean to draw the dragon’s attention,” Alistair said. It warmed her heart how much more he was acting like a leader now that he had been confirmed as king. He was no longer the wounded animal who had begged her to take the lead after Ostagar. If she’d ever had any doubts that she’d made the right decision, his behavior had silenced them. He was the right king for Ferelden.

“You’re not coming with us?” Thora asked Riordan.

He shook his head. “If there are too many of us, the Archdemon can sense us. If the two of you can clear the rooftop, I will try to take down the Archdemon.”

“May the Maker watch over you,” Alistair said. Thora remembered him saying the same thing to Duncan before Ostagar. The Maker didn’t do Duncan much good, thought the part of her mind that still didn’t understand the human religion. 

Riordan crossed his arm over his chest, bowing toward them. “And over you,” he murmured. “May we prevail.” And with that he was gone, running lightly through the gates, darting from shadow to shadow to avoid being spotted.

Thora looked at her assembled group, all of them watching her closely. “Oghren,” she said. “You’ll be in charge here at the gates. See that nothing gets in.”

The dwarf growled his assent. “Warden,” he said, “the world is made of blighters and heroes. As one of the blighters, I sodding salute you.” He bowed, and she smiled at him. “Now … let us show them our hearts. And then show them theirs.” The dwarf’s lips drew back in a snarl.

She turned to Lohengrin, going down on her knees next to the dog, putting her arms about his broad shoulders. “I’ll be back, boy,” she whispered. “Keep Oghren out of trouble.” The dog barked happily, licking her face.

Meeting Morrigan’s eyes, Thora shook her head. “I am not to accompany you?” Morrigan asked, her eyebrows raised. 

“In your delicate condition?” Thora murmured.

Morrigan gave a surprised little laugh. “Very well. I will remain here.” Her face grew serious. “We will not meet again.” Clearly there was something else she wanted to say, but didn’t know how.

“Travel safely, Morrigan,” Thora said. She saw the mage’s eyes flash with relief at being saved from her own awkwardness.

“And you.” Morrigan inclined her head, turning to follow Oghren and the dog.

Thora watched them go, taking up position at the gates, and then turned to look at the three people she knew she could rely on at all costs. “Leliana?” she asked.

The bard laughed. “I am ready. We go to do the Maker’s work together, and I look forward to the battle.” Thora’s mouth quirked at the martial light in her friend’s eyes. 

She held her hand out to Wynne. “I am with you,” the mage assured her. “To the top of Fort Drakon and beyond.”

“You’re ready?” Thora asked, hoping the mage would know what she was talking about.

“Yes. I even have some new spells for the occasion,” Wynne said with a small half-smile. Thora breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t know if she would be able to do this if she knew it would put her child in danger.

Wynne and Leliana moved a few steps away as Thora turned to Alistair. She remembered that last morning in Redcliffe, when they’d woken in each other’s arms after the long fearful night with Riordan and Morrigan. In the early morning light, she’d watched his sleeping face until wakefulness came to him and he opened his eyes, smiling to see her there. Out of sheer habit, his arms had tightened around her, pulling her close for a good-morning kiss. She’d allowed it—welcomed it, savored it—as his tongue caressed her mouth and his body pressed hers back into the pillows, until one of his hands began to slide down her side, grazing the edge of her stomach. Then she’d had to drag her mouth away from his, calling his name in a painful moan to bring them both back to the reality where they didn’t belong in bed together.

He’d looked at her, his face inscrutable, then gotten out of bed and begun restoring his clothes to rights without another word to her. They’d been short with each other ever since, except for the heartfelt speech he’d given the troops about her just before the battle. 

Alistair looked at her now, spreading his hands helplessly before him. “Here we go,” he said. “The last push.”

“Hopefully.”

“I just— With everything that’s happened, I want you to know: it’s been an honor fighting by your side.” 

“The honor was mine,” she said softly, meaning it. 

They turned, joining the others, and the four of them jogged through the line of soldiers cheering them on, heading into the heart of the destroyed city.


	18. Rooftop

On the roof of Fort Drakon, all was chaos. Darkspawn were pouring out onto the rooftop, and the Archdemon was blowing great blue blasts of corruption all around. They’d done it quite a bit of damage already, but not enough. From the courtyard of the Fort, Thora had watched Riordan fall from the dragon’s wing, seen his broken body land on a parapet. She and Alistair had looked at each other, knowing now it was up to them.

And here they were, the objective almost within their reach. Thora caught the eye of Kardol, the leader of the Legion of the Dead. She was glad to have such stalwart warriors as the Legion at her back. “Cover me!” she shouted. He went before her, clearing a path through the darkspawn, as she held her blades at the ready. At last she reached the dragon’s side, driving Duncan’s dagger in, and used her two blades to climb up to its head. She hung on grimly as the head twitched back and forth, Maric’s blade firmly dug into the neck to hold her steady, stabbing the Archdemon over and over with Duncan’s dagger. She felt a grim satisfaction that it was his blade that would help take down this great monster.

The momentary distraction of the thought was enough. The dragon tossed its head, and she lost her grip on Maric’s blade, flying through the air. With an agility born of desperation—she couldn’t land awkwardly and chance hurting the baby—she twisted in the air to land on her feet. Her boots scraped across the stone roof as she slid, but as she came to a stop, she saw the dragon was down. Now! she thought. “Wynne!” She searched desperately for the mage. She found her, already in place, standing not far from the dragon and tracing some kind of rune in the air. Wynne nodded, and Thora raced forward, her mouth set determinedly, wrenching a sword from the gut of a hurlock as she passed it. 

Amidst the confusion, Alistair saw her too late to stop her. “Thora!” he cried, but she couldn’t hear him. He started to move, to try and catch her, force her to let him do this, just in case Morrigan’s ritual hadn’t worked, but his metal boots couldn’t seem to find purchase in the rubble and he stumbled, nearly falling. He would never be able to reach her in time now. He saw Leliana at his side and they ran forward together.

Thora reached the dragon, which lay twitching weakly. It was almost gone. Just one more blow, and it would be over. She lifted the sword in her hands, paused to make sure her aim was true, and then stabbed downward, forcing the sword through the dragon’s skull and brain, her entire weight leaning on it as it sank in. 

For a moment, there was nothing. Then a great light and a rushing wind came boiling forth from the entry point of the blade. Thora held on with all her strength, hearing voices crying at her, feeling the wind like fingers wrapping around her hands, trying to force her away from the blade.

On the ground a disturbance ran through the darkspawn. The Fereldans looked up, seeing the white shaft of light climbing from the top of the Fort, and they cheered as the darkspawn disengaged from the battle, rushing away as fast as they could go.

“She sodding did it,” Oghren growled, raising his maul in the air in the great cheer that went up from all throats. “The Grey Warden!” they called. When the cheer was over and the light had faded from the top of the Fort, Oghren looked around and found that Morrigan was gone. Where, he didn’t know. “Figures,” he grunted, and got started helping to clear up the battleground.

On top of the Fort, Wynne was holding her ward steady around Thora with every ounce of strength she had, calling on the spirit that sustained her for help as well. She could not fail in this task. She knew the true, utterly unique heritage of the child Thora carried within her. So it was for Ferelden, as well as for the two young people she loved as her own, that Wynne held firm, determined that no corrupting taint would touch the child.

Alistair could no longer see Thora through the blinding flash of light, but he was determined to try and get to her. Until suddenly there was a great concussion and they were all sent flying—all but Wynne, who had braced herself against a wall and continued her chant with fierce determination. Alistair came to a stop far across the rooftop, his eyes searching desperately for the bright hair and the dark armor. At last he saw her, lying motionless near a pile of darkspawn bodies. As the rest of the troops on the roof—the few remaining mages, First Enchanter Irving, the Legion dwarves, Arl Eamon, Leliana—all began to get to their feet, Alistair was already on his, running to the small crumpled body. What if it hadn’t worked? he thought, his heart in his throat. It was one thing to live without her, knowing she was somewhere in the world still alive. It would be quite another to live without her knowing that he’d failed to save her. At last he reached her, pulling her into his arms, ripping off his metal gloves and cradling her head in his hands.

She opened her eyes to see the beloved face leaning over her. It was just like waking up after the Joining to see Alistair and Duncan’s faces staring down at her. “I think this is where we started, isn’t it?” she asked him in a hoarse croak, smiling.

He breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank the Maker,” he said. “I thought you were— I was afraid— How could you put yourself in danger that way?!” 

Thora struggled to sit up, feeling sore everywhere. “Grey Warden, remember? Kill the Archdemon, end the Blight, save the world … any of that ring a bell?” She groaned.

“Sounds vaguely familiar,” Alistair said, weak with relief.

Thora searched the rooftop frantically for Wynne. The mage, so drained she could barely stand, managed a nod in the dwarf’s direction, and a weary smile passed between the two before Wynne collapsed in the arms of First Enchanter Irving.

Alistair still held Thora’s hands in his, unable to let go. “Are you— Are you sure you’re all right?”

She took stock for a moment. “Yes, I think so.” Looking up at him, she thought, if they had still been together, what a wonderful, triumphant moment this could have been, hugging each other wildly, their future spreading out before them. Instead, this moment would mark the end of their travels together. Sadly, she removed her hands from his. “Your public awaits, Your Majesty.”

He stood up, helping her as well, just to have the excuse to touch her one more time before reentering reality. “Your public, I think you mean. You’ve saved us all.” 

“Ours, then. We’ve done this together.”

He capitulated. “Ours.” If the moment wasn’t entirely triumphant, at least it belonged to them. And no one could take it away from them.


	19. Worthy of Her

The coronation had gone off without a hitch. Alistair had looked regal and not entirely unhappy as he’d climbed to the dais and been blessed by the Revered Mother. Afterward, he’d called her up next to him to formally thank her for everything she’d done for the kingdom. He’d gifted the Arling of Amaranthine to the Grey Wardens. Thora wasn’t sure that was far enough away; she was a bit overwhelmed at the practical details of rebuilding the Grey Wardens while bearing the King’s illegitimate child and keeping anyone from finding out about it. 

Wondering what had her so distracted, he motioned to the doors at the end of the hall. “I’m told there’s quite a gathering out there, awaiting the Hero of Ferelden.”

She grimaced.

“Also, there’s been a message from the Grey Wardens of Orlais, wondering how it was possible for you to defeat the Archdemon without dying.”

“Oh. Huh. Hadn’t thought about that.”

“Not to worry. I’ll just act like I don’t know what they’re talking about. It’s a gift,” he said with a smug smile. 

“Sounds like a plan.”

“So, um … what are your plans, exactly?” She saw her Alistair peeking out from the King’s eyes, and she wished she could tell him something he’d like to hear.

“I’ll be leaving very soon,” she said crisply. 

“Where to? Amaranthine?”

“I’m not sure. Let me give it a little thought. Can I … talk to you later?”

He nodded. They were all staying at the Arl of Denerim’s estate—it was in far better condition than either Arl Eamon’s estate or the royal palace. “I’ll be in the Arl’s study after the banquet, if you’d like to talk then.”

“Of course. Until then, Your Majesty.” She bowed, her right arm clasped across her chest, ignoring the scowl that crossed his face when she used his title.

At the foot of the dais, she found Arl Eamon, who took the opportunity to thank her from the bottom of his heart for saving his family. He told her Connor had gone to the Circle Tower, and that he and Arlessa Isolde would be staying in Denerim to advise Alistair while Bann Teagan took over at Redcliffe. “It’s too bad you’ll be leaving, my lady,” the Arl said. “I’m sure Alistair could use your counsel as well.”

“With respect, my lord,” she said quietly, “I think Alistair will do quite well. He’s grown used to following; now is his chance to lead.”

“There’s something to that,” said the Arl. “I’ll have to keep it in mind.”

Some way farther on, she was happily surprised to find Gorim waiting for her. “My lady,” he said, bowing to her.

“My dear friend,” she said. “I was concerned for you.”

“And I for you. But I should have known better. You always seem to land on your feet,” he said. “Speaking of which, did you know that we have both been reinstated in our castes and house?”

“Really.”

“The Assembly apparently decided they’d better claim the Hero of Ferelden while they could.”

“And you’ve been reinstated along with me?” she asked. “I’m so glad.”

Gorim bowed to her. “As I fell with you, apparently I rise with you as well. King Harrowmont has named you the head of House Aeducan, as well.”

Thora sighed. “I’m not going back there, Gorim. My life is here on the surface. Do you want to go back? I will happily name you head of House Aeducan in my stead.”

“It would be my honor, my lady,” he said. “The people are waiting for you.” He gestured toward the increasing clamor outside the doors.

“Yes,” Thora said. “I suppose I should go and say something.” She turned and walked down the hall toward the door, nodding to and clasping the hands of the people she passed on the way. 

Gorim felt a presence beside him, and looked up to see the young King of Ferelden standing next to him. “Congratulations, Your Majesty.”

“What? Oh, thank you. Gorim, right?” At Gorim’s nod, the King went on. “I’m told you’ve been reinstated in Orzammar, you and Thora.” Gorim noticed a faint hesitation before the other man said her name.

“Yes. There’s talk of making her a Paragon, as well.”

“She’s already a Paragon,” the King muttered, almost to himself. “Whether the Assembly says so or not.”

“It must be difficult to let her go,” the dwarf said quietly, looking around to make sure no one was standing near them.

The King glanced at him in surprise, then nodded. “How could you tell?”

“She leaves her mark,” said Gorim, with great feeling. 

Alistair stared at the dwarf for a moment before his meaning sank in. “You’ve gone on, though.”

“Yes. But I was never worthy of her. And she never loved me. It’s clear you can’t say the same.”

“What makes you think so?” Alistair asked. It was a surprising relief to talk to someone who knew what it was like to lose her.

“I know her,” Gorim said simply. “I was at her side day and night for 10 years.”

“10 years.” There was great longing in the King’s voice. “What I wouldn’t give for 10 years.”

“If I may, Your Majesty … there is happiness to be found. You have to put … her … away.”

“Easier said than done,” Alistair remarked bitterly.

“It is.” Gorim remembered long nights outside her door, standing his self-imposed guard, wishing just once the door would open to him. “But she does not give her trust—or her love—to people who don’t have that strength.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “She does everything before her to the best of her ability. Can we do less?” He looked sidewise at the King, whose face seemed somehow stronger than it had before.

“Thank you, Gorim,” Alistair said softly. “If there is anything you should ever need, you may call on me.”

“Your Majesty.” Gorim bowed. He thought for the first time how glad he was that she had never loved him—how much easier it was to give her up when you’d never had her. As he watched the King move slowly through the room, his sadness disappearing beneath a mask, Gorim could see in the tall human what she must see, and was glad that, even for a brief time, she had found someone worthy of her.


	20. Friends and Partners

Even with the city still in piles of rubble everywhere, it was a day of celebration. Reconstruction was proceeding at an astonishing pace. The people of Denerim were fanatically loyal to their city, and would not see it destroyed for long. 

The entire company of travelers were at the grand feast held, for lack of anywhere better that was in appropriate condition, in the Chantry. The entire company other than Morrigan, that is. She hadn’t been seen since the Archdemon was killed. The result of her ritual would, hopefully, not be known to them. Ever, Thora thought. She was seated at the head of the banquet table with Alistair, but spent very little time sitting. During most of the feast, she was moving about the room, talking to some people, arranging for messages to be sent to others. By the time the banquet drew to a close, she knew what she would do about rebuilding the Grey Wardens.

People began to leave in small groups, going back to wherever they’d found a place to stay. Thora’s group had agreed to meet by the big fireplace in the kitchen at the Arl of Denerim’s estate, that being as close as they would get to gathering around a campfire. They all knew this would be the last night.

But before that, she needed to speak with Alistair.

She strolled back to the Arl of Denerim’s estate with Oghren. He was the other person she needed to speak to today. She eyed him appraisingly. Drunk, that was a given … but not so drunk as he would be later. “Oghren.”

“Warden?”

“What are your plans, now that the Blight is over? Will you go back to Orzammar?”

“Not sodding likely! Being up here on the surface still feels like being drunk every day … without having to drink a thing.”

“Then what will you do?” 

He belched, looking thoughtful. “I could look up Felsi again. She didn’t seem too happy to see me … but Little Oghren might convince her.”

Thora let that one go. “I was wondering … if I could ask you to stay with me in Amaranthine for a while?”

Oghren chortled. “Think the little Wardens could use some seasoning, do ya?”

“I think you could be very useful … to me and to the new Warden recruits. Will you stay for a while? We can even try and contact Felsi for you.”

“By the Stone, Warden, you’ve got yourself a deal! Let’s drink to it.”

“You drink, Oghren. I think I’ll pass.” They were entering the Arl of Denerim’s estate now. “And Oghren?”

He burped at her.

“Remember to meet us in all in the kitchen later. And we’ll be needing to leave tomorrow. Around midday. Okay by you?”

“If we have to go, might’s well go soon. Before someone hands us a sodding can of nails and expects us to go to work, eh?” He laughed heartily.

“A good point.” She took a deep breath, then headed for the Arl’s study. She stood outside the door for several minutes, smoothing her sweaty palms over the dress someone had found and forced her to wear. She had reason to be thankful for the current styles, though … they made everyone look pregnant. Eventually she knocked on the door.

“Come in.” Alistair was sitting behind the desk, leaning back in the chair, looking surprisingly comfortable. “You know, I knew you were there.”

She looked at him, startled. “Ah, yes, the taint. Makes it hard to sneak up on another Grey Warden, doesn’t it?” She took a chair on the other side of the desk. Armorless and seated, she felt small and vulnerable and ill at ease.

There was a long silence, then they both started to speak at once. Alistair held up a hand. “Me first. Please? Don’t make me assert the royal privilege.” She nodded, glad to hear him making jokes about being king now. “I just … wanted to apologize for how moody and sulky I’ve been.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” she broke in. “It was … a lot to get used to, with a lot of uncertainty ahead. I don’t think any of us were exactly at our best.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Earlier today I was talking to G—someone,” he corrected himself. It occurred to him that perhaps Gorim’s confidence had not been meant to be shared. “And I was reminded by that conversation that before we were … us,” he stumbled over the word, and he saw her eyes close for a moment. Taking a deep breath, Alistair went on, “we were friends, and partners, and Grey Wardens. As you go forward to rebuild the order here in Ferelden, we will have to continue to work together. Not only because it will be your duty to report to the king.” He gave her a self-deprecating grin, but she could tell he was starting to get used to it. “But also because I am still a Grey Warden, and I can’t pretend not to be. Rebuilding the order is important to me, and I want to be part of it as much as I can. I assume you won’t have a problem with that?”

“Of course not.”

“So given all that, it would be nice if we could go back to being … friends. Partners in the Grey Wardens.” He touched the amulet on its braided chain at his throat. “Some things will never change. You know that. I know that. But I will have to get married and provide an heir to the kingdom. Will you … will you be all right with that?” 

Thora was staring at him, wide-eyed, but filled with pride. What a long way he had come in such a short time. “To be honest with you,” she said, “I … have to be. Don’t I? There’s no other choice. Friends, partners, Grey Wardens? Absolutely, and with great pride. Throwing rice at your wed—“ The word caught in her throat and would not be said. “Uh, ceremony? That I’m not so sure about. Hopefully I’ll have some time to get used to the idea.” 

“I don’t know how much time,” he said. He wasn’t sure if he was pleased or disappointed by her response. “The Landsmeet is determined to have me married off as soon as possible.”

“Probably wise of them.” She sighed. “I’ll be all right with it. Or I’ll have a very good excuse not to be here for the actual … ceremony. Come to think of it, wouldn’t that be easier for you?” All she could think of was that it would probably be either when she was too vastly pregnant to show herself, or right after she’d had the baby. Either way, not the best time to attend her lover’s wedding.

“That’s a good point.” He ran his hand over his face. “Yes, now that you mention it, that might well be best. I’ll try to get you some extra warning before the event … whenever it is … and will make excuses for you myself. You’re right. I’m not sure I could do it, either.” It would be just like him to say the wrong name in his vows or do something equally foolish. Much easier if she wasn’t there.

“So we’re okay now?” Thora asked hopefully. “Past all the anger and the bitterness and the … everything? At least enough to perform our duties?”

He nodded. 

“Alistair, do you— You don’t regret … what we were, do you?” The words were nearly a whisper. But she needed to know, needed to hear it.

“Never. Without you, and … everything we were together, I would not be fit to sit in, well, in the king’s chair,” he said, remembering that he was currently sitting in the Arl of Denerim’s chair. “Do you?”

With an effort, she resisted the urge to put her hands over her belly. “No. You’ve been—“ But she couldn’t finish. Not now. She put a hand up to her hair, which had a tendency to tousle now that it was short. It was a good look for her, actually, made her look a bit softer, he reflected, but he got the message and understood why she no longer had the words. Or couldn’t share them with him.

“You wanted to say something,” he said.

“I did. I wanted to tell you that we’ll be leaving tomorrow. Wynne and Oghren are both going along with me.”

“Really? I thought Oghren was off to find some dwarf woman. Folsi or Felsi or something like that?”

“He, um, seems to need to work up the courage for a while,” she lied. 

“And I was hoping Wynne would stay with me.” He looked disappointed.

“I believe she plans to be back in a year or so. I think she said she wanted to get her fill of travel while she still could, and then is hoping to, ah, how did she put it? ‘Rest her old bones in some comfy perch in the castle.’ So see that you provide her one, young man!” She shook her finger at him in imitation of Wynne. They both laughed.

Sobering, he asked, “You’re leaving tomorrow? That seems … soon.”

“I know. But the sooner the better, wouldn’t you say?” They stared at each other across the desk for a long moment. Thora was the first to look away. “As far as the Grey Wardens are concerned,” she said briskly, “I’ll be spending the next six months or so studying the order, learning whatever there is to know, and setting up Amaranthine. Thank you for that, by the way.” He inclined his head. “As such, I won’t be doing the active recruiting during that time.”

“Who will be?” he asked in some surprise. 

“I’m setting up a network. You, of course, should feel free to send on any promising recruits. First Enchanter Irving, Teagan, Sergeant Kylon of the Denerim Guards, Lanaya of the Dalish, Gorim in Orzammar, and Shianni in the Alienage will all be keeping their eyes open for recruits as well. Any they find will be sent on to Orzammar.”

“Why Orzammar?” he asked. “Why not to Amaranthine for training?”

“They’ll fight darkspawn under Kardol of the Legion of the Dead until he thinks they’re ready. At that point, he’ll send them on to me at Amaranthine, and we’ll go from there.”

“That sounds well planned, Warden Commander.”

She stood up. “Is there anything else, Your Majesty?”

The dark eyes flashed, but he didn’t protest. “No, I think we’ve said all there is to say. Don’t you?”

“Actually, there’s one more thing. Don’t be surprised if I’m not back in Denerim until the anniversary of our victory over the Archdemon.”

“That— That’s a year!” 

“I know. I think that’s needed. You need to not be able to depend on my advice, I need to focus on rebuilding the Wardens, and we both need the lack of … distraction, if we’re to succeed in our tasks.”

Alistair sighed. “Fair enough. A year it is.”

“Thank you. Are you coming down to the kitchen? It’s our last night.”

He nodded. “Give me a few minutes, please.”

“As you wish.”


	21. On His Own

“Are you going to be all right, with everyone gone?” Leliana asked. She was sitting in Thora’s chair on the other side of Alistair’s desk.

“I suppose,” Alistair said. He stood staring out the window. “In some ways, it’s easier. I’ll be free to focus on my new duties. Certainly won’t have anything better to do,” he muttered.

The bard looked at him sympathetically. “At least we had last night,” she said softly. They looked at each other for a moment, remembering the happy night in the estate kitchen. The group of them had filled hours with do-you-remembers and shared jokes, all of them gathered around watching the flames, as they had so many nights in camp. Except Morrigan, but then she’d always kept to herself anyway, so no one missed her overmuch.

Alistair’s brain still refused to contemplate the night he had spent with the witch. The act itself hadn’t been as difficult as he’d expected, particularly once she’d blown out the candle. He recognized that the memory probably would continue to bother him until some darkspawn blade eventually found him in the Deep Roads. He just hoped that the product of that night wouldn’t come back to haunt him. Maybe it was cowardly to wish that on a future generation, but there you had it.

Leliana’s voice broke into his thoughts. “How long do you think it will take them to get to Amaranthine?”

“Several days, I would expect. Depending on how hard they travel.” They had said good-bye to their former companions earlier that morning. When Alistair closed his eyes he could still picture his last glimpse of Thora. The hood of her grey cloak had fallen back, leaving the gleam of her wind-tossed red hair open to the sunlight she loved. There had been a small smile on her face as her eyes sought his one more time, and they’d stared, memorizing each other’s face. As if they hadn’t done so already, night after night, day after day. And then she was gone, and the sunlit sky might as well have been the dark vault of the Deep Roads. 

“I’m surprised Oghren went with them. I’d have thought he’d be heading off to find that dwarven girl.”

“Thora said he was afraid to.”

“Or maybe he just likes Wynne,” Leliana giggled. 

“Oh, that’s not funny. Not funny at all,” Alistair said, shuddering at the image.

There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” he called. 

Arl Eamon poked his head in. “Ah, my boy. I wondered if you might need some company. Oh!” he said, seeing Leliana. “I didn’t realize you already had some.”

“It’s all right, my lord,” she said, getting up. “I was just leaving. They’re expecting me at the Chantry to talk about plans for a trip to Haven, to study Andraste’s ashes.”

“They couldn’t have made a better choice,” Alistair said. “When are you leaving?”

“That’ll depend on the Chantry and how long it takes Brother Genitivi and me to get them to open their purse strings,” Leliana said.

“So you’ll be around for a while, then,” Eamon joked. All three laughed.

Leliana gave Alistair a hug. “Will you be all right?” she asked quietly. He nodded.

After she’d gone, Eamon took a seat next to the desk—not the one Thora had sat in, Alistair thought. He was glad this wasn’t the royal palace, so that soon he could move out of here and stop thinking of that as her chair every time someone came in. Alistair sat down behind the desk, idly flipping through the stack of papers that lay there. All things considered, he thought he wouldn’t mind the paperwork part of this job as much as the politics and the court manners.

“I thought you might be having a difficult time now that your friends have left for Amaranthine.”

“It’s not my best day,” Alistair said quietly, pulling the papers closer, hoping to forestall the conversation by looking busy.

“A motley group,” said the Arl, “but they did great things.”

“Yes.” Alistair signed a paper and turned to the next one.

The Arl leaned back in his chair. “It’s a shame your Warden friend couldn’t stay,” he mused. “Her input would have been valuable.”

“I believe she was anxious to get started rebuilding the Order.” Alistair didn’t look up from the contract he was reviewing.

“Yes, I suppose so. Still …” The Arl’s voice trailed off.

Alistair reached for the water goblet on his desk. As he drank, his shirt shifted a bit, and Eamon saw the amulet he wore. 

“Is that your mother’s?” he asked.

Surprised, Alistair said, “Yes. Yes, it is. Thora found it in your desk when we were at Redcliffe Castle and gave it to me.” He looked up at the older man. “I wanted to thank you for putting it back together. I thought often about how much I wished I hadn’t broken it.”

Eamon looked at the face before him, remembering the tempests of the high-spirited little boy. “I am glad you have it back,” he said. “I brought it with me to the Chantry, but—“

“I wasn’t ready. For it, or for anything. It took … all this,” Alistair said, his hand straying unconsciously to the chain, “for me to understand.” 

The younger man’s voice trailed off, his look faraway and … longing? Eamon thought. “I’m surprised you’re wearing it,” he said. “I’d have thought it was too delicate.”

“Wynne enchanted it for me,” Alistair said in a more normal voice. He bent again to the papers in front of him, hoping they could stop talking about this now.

“That was your mother’s most prized possession,” Eamon said, almost to himself.

Alistair looked up again, interested. “Was it? I— I didn’t know that. I know so little of her,” he said.

“You’re right.” Eamon’s eyes rested on the lad with regret. “Alistair, we made so many mistakes with your bringing up. We should have—done better by you.”

“You did what you thought was best.” Alistair shrugged. “It was hard at the time, but I’ve come to … understand better, I think.”

“Yes,” Eamon said, unconvinced. He stood up, walking to the window, thinking of Alistair’s mother. He shuddered to think what Fiona would say if she knew how they’d raised her son. Although he thought she’d be proud of the man he’d become. “Some day I will have to tell you more about her,” he said. “Now is perhaps not quite the right time.” 

“I look forward to it,” Alistair said quietly.

Eamon turned around, looking at the young man, who was bent again over the desk. The light from the window lit the back of his neck. Eamon took a closer look at the chain the amulet hung from. Was that hair? And where had he seen hair the color of that chain before? he wondered. It wasn’t his mother’s—did the boy have a lover somewhere? Some woman who might make trouble when they were looking for a suitable queen?

Could it be the bard? Her hair was reddish. But entirely too short to have made that chain, Eamon thought. He resumed his seat, sorting through all the women he’d seen recently. Then it came to him. He thought of a few things he had seen in camp and some comments from Teagan he’d paid little attention to and wondered why he hadn’t realized it before. “Oh, my dear boy,” he said, softly and with great sympathy. “No wonder she left. Best thing for both of you, I suppose.”

Alistair looked up, meeting Eamon’s gaze levelly, but said nothing. 

Eamon was impressed with the younger man’s self-command. He’d matured a great deal. “I can’t fault your taste,” he said. “She’s a remarkable woman.”

“She is that,” said Alistair, torn between pain and pride.

“And it’s … over?” He hated to ask—it was clear Alistair didn’t want to talk about it—but he needed to know. 

“Of course,” snapped Alistair. “How could it not be? A king has … obligations,” he said, his voice dripping with bitterness.

“He does,” Eamon agreed. “But that hasn’t always stopped some—“ He broke off, remembering who he was speaking to. Alistair knew better than any what could happen.

A muscle twitched in the younger man’s jaw before he returned to the work in front of him. 

Eamon sat back, drinking his wine, looking speculatively at the man on the other side of the desk.


	22. Making Plans

The night before they were due to arrive at Amaranthine, Thora sat with her companions around the fire. “I thought we might want to talk about a few things,” she said. “One of which … Oghren, I think it’s time to tell you the real reason I need your help.”

“Ah, I knew it,” growled the dwarf. “Now’s when it all comes out. The hot coals of Oghren burnin’ in your—“

“Will you stop with that?” Thora snapped impatiently. “Oghren, not now, not ever. Try it on Wynne. At least that would be amusing.” She grinned at the mage, who blushed a bit, to Thora’s surprise. Oghren gave a delighted guffaw. 

“Wynne, you old doxy! Any time you want Oghren to give you a tumble …”

“Thank you, Oghren,” Wynne said, retaining her composure. “Some other time perhaps.”

“Lookin’ forward to it.”

“Anyway,” Thora said with emphasis, hoping to move on before they made her ill. “The reason I need you around, Oghren, is that I won’t be capable of fighting for a while. At least, not the way I used to be.” She swallowed, looking into the fire. “I’m pregnant.”

Oghren’s eyes went wide and he choked on a swallow of ale. “Got a royal bun in the oven, do ya? Well, you shouldn’t be so surprised. What with the two of you goin’ at it like nugs night and day.”

Thora’s lip curled at the image. She’d never liked being compared to a nug. “Yes, I suppose that’s one way to put it,” she said.

“Does the boy know?” Oghren looked surprisingly sober as he gazed at her over his cup.

“No.”

“What kind of game are you playin’, missy?” He gave her a look that reminded Thora that he’d known her since she was knee-high to a bronto. “He’s young and plenty wet behind the ears, but he deserves to know he’s gonna be a father.”

“You’re right,” Thora sighed. “He does. But it’s more complicated than that.”

“Yeah?”

Thora glanced at Wynne, but the mage was staying out of this one. Thora knew Wynne was as conflicted as she was about leaving without telling Alistair about the baby. With a sigh, she launched into her reasons. “First off,” she said, “if I tell him now, he’ll renounce the throne. He’s too new to it, not yet committed enough. Or, worse yet, he’ll try some grandstand with the Landsmeet to convince them to accept a dwarf as queen and a half-dwarf as heir to the throne. Which would never work, and would embarrass all of us and put his chance of finding a suitable wi—“ She swallowed, but could not get her throat to let the word by. “A human queen to sire an heir with in jeopardy.” She looked at her companions sharply, but they said nothing. “Second, if I tell him now, he would have an even harder time coming to terms with a … suitable human queen and creating an heir with her than he’s already going to. And if he doesn’t have an heir of Theirin blood, I think that might well threaten his whole reign. I really don’t want to have to fight another civil war to keep him on the throne.” Thora sighed. “Last. Between the taint in our blood and the battle with the Archdemon— Long story,” she said to Oghren, who was looking at her curiously. “There’s no way of knowing until the baby’s born if it’s going to be … right. I don’t want to get his hopes up by telling him he’s going to have a child and then have to tell him that his child turned out to be some tainted creature.” A shiver ran through her as she stared miserably at the fire. “One of us terrified of that future is enough,” she said, almost to herself. She looked back at Oghren. “Satisfied that I have my reasons?”

“Aye.” He gulped down some more ale. “So what do we do now?”

“Recruits will be gathering in Orzammar for training under the Kardol and the Legion. So we go to Amaranthine, we get the Arling ready for the recruits when they arrive. I told Kardol to make good and sure they were blooded against the darkspawn, and gave him a broad hint that if it took him six months, that wouldn’t be a bad thing. And you know Kardol—no sense of humor where darkspawn are concerned. He’ll be the best teacher in the ways of being a Grey Warden they could have.”

“What about the Grey Wardens of Orlais? Will they be coming to meet you?”

Thora stared at the red-headed dwarf, her mouth open. “I hadn’t thought of that.” She looked at the mage. “Wynne?”

Wynne clearly hadn’t thought about it, either. The two women looked at each other for a minute. Then Wynne said, “Didn’t we hear something before we left Denerim about roving bands of darkspawn still wandering the countryside?”

“Yes, we did. I thought it sounded a little strange, though. Aren’t the darkspawn supposed to be gone with the Archdemon dead?”

“Maybe. But if they’re not …”

“You want me to fight a bunch of darkspawn to keep the Orlesian Grey Wardens away?”

“No,” Wynne said, “but I want them to think you did.”

Thora looked at her quizzically. “What’s going on in that devious brain of yours?”

“If you were attacked by darkspawn …”

“Aye!” Oghren cried, clearly catching on. “Which you would be, seein’ as they’re drawn to your taint …”

“And if you were, say, injured …” Wynne went on.

“Injured bad, you see …”

“You might require months of recovery.”

“Recovery without visitors.” Oghren nodded, winking at Thora. “The old lady is a sodding genius!”

“Thank you, Oghren,” Wynne said, smiling at the dwarf. She looked at Thora. “Do you see what we’re getting at?”

“I think I do,” Thora said slowly. “Except for one problem.” Both of them looked at her. “As soon as Alistair hears I’m that badly injured, a team of Archdemons won’t be able to keep him in Denerim.”

“A team of Archdemons couldn’t. But you can. You can send him a message forbidding him to come. You could even say it’s to keep the Orlesians off your back. He’d believe that.” 

“It seems workable,” Thora admitted.

“And has the advantage that it will keep your adoring public from dropping in, as well.”

“My friends, I don’t know what I would do without you.” She sighed, staring into the flames. Oghren took another long swig of ale and fell over his log. He really should try sleeping in a tent sometime, she thought. 

Wynne came over to sit next to her, and the two women sat together quietly for a long time.

Finally, Wynne murmured, “Are you all right, my dear?”

Thora shrugged. “I haven’t gone this long without seeing Alistair since … since I met him, actually. I’m not enjoying it.”

“Really? I would never have guessed,” the mage said drily.

“You want a good laugh, though?”

“We could probably both use one.”

“Alistair isn’t what has me off-balance.”

“What does, then?”

“I miss my hair!”


	23. Selection

Alistair was at dinner when the message arrived. One of the elven servants brought it in. “Your Majesty, a missive from the Grey Warden hold at Amaranthine.” His breath caught and his heart started pounding. His brain simply refused to work. Somehow he managed to retain an outward semblance of calm while he took the envelope from the servant, although his hands were trembling as he opened it, scanning the lines. Wounded? Thora wounded? All those battles, and Thora had never been wounded, not seriously. _Great, Alistair_ , he thought. _One more person you could have helped if you’d been there. But, oh, no._ The bold dark writing at the bottom didn’t look wounded, though: “Please don’t worry—and don’t come here. I’ll be fine. Just make sure the Orlesians get the message.”

Unreasonably angry with her, he crumpled the paper in his hand. This would have to arrive today, he thought. Tomorrow was the grand reception his advisors had assembled so he could meet their selected potential queens. He was nervous enough without having to worry about her on top of it all. Wasn’t being here without her torment enough? “Don’t worry,” she said. Right. Like it was that easy. 

Alistair spent a restless night in which thoughts of her and worries about the reception made him wish for a good old-fashioned nightmare about darkspawn. It would have been more relaxing. 

The next day he was getting dressed when a knock came at the door. “Enter!”

Arl Eamon poked his head in. “That’s not what you’re wearing, is it?”

Alistair looked down. He was wearing a blue tunic and brown pants. Seemed reasonable to him. “I’m not going to put on a dress and dance the Remigold,” he said. “I hope.”

“Still.” The Arl studied him. “That’s awfully plain. Don’t you want to dazzle the young ladies?”

“I was relying on my wit and charm for that,” Alistair snapped, studying his hair in the glass.

“My boy, I know you don’t want to do this,” the Arl sighed. “But we both know it’s necessary.” He thought sorrowfully of Maric, and Rowan, and Loghain, and Fiona. “Others have made this sacrifice before you, and undoubtedly many more will make it again. These are the things we give up for our country.”

Alistair had to acknowledge the truth of the older man’s words, but, knowing little of the history the Arl alluded to, didn’t feel any better. He sighed, turning away from the mirror. “Do I really need to get all fancied up for this? Maybe I could just dig out a set of armor.”

“You’d terrify them.” The Arl selected a much nicer tunic, embroidered in deep greens, handing it to Alistair.

Thinking of a woman who had been anything but terrified by the sight of him in armor, Alistair put on the fancier clothes the Arl handed him. “How many women are coming to this affair, anyway?”

“Ten,” said the Arl. “We had long discussions about which ones seemed most suitable. These are all native Fereldans, all daughters of worthy men.”

“There won’t be another civil war if I pick the wrong woman, will there?”

“We thought of that, but I believe the parents of these young ladies all feel the need to bring the country together. Besides.” The Arl shrugged, sighing. “It would be much worse if you married a foreigner. Your line must be pure Fereldan, if it is to continue with the country’s support.”

“Arl Eamon, you know there’s no guarantee that I can produce an heir at all. The taint, you know,” Alistair said uncomfortably.

“I know, my boy. But you must try. It is your—“

“Duty,” Alistair finished. Sometimes he thought he would have preferred death. It would have been a single clean cut, instead of all these little slashes duty kept leaving to bleed. “I suppose I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Would a little enthusiasm be too much to ask? It’s not every man who gets the cream of Ferelden’s womanhood spread out before him like a buffet,” Arl Eamon snapped.

“Right. Enthusiasm. On it.” Alistair took a deep breath, trying to imagine what it would be like to feel enthusiasm about this task. Even if he’d never met … her, he’d have had a hard time with the idea of selecting a wife from a group of women. Exactly how did you go about that, anyway? He shook his head. Things would have been so much easier if they could have left Anora on the throne. Then he could be a Grey Warden right now, in Amaranthine setting up the order with Thora … who was wounded. Badly wounded. But adamant that he not come to see her. It was always duty first with that woman, which was what he loved about her, after all, except when it kept him from rushing to her side … 

“Alistair!” The Arl’s voice was sharp. “Snap out of it!” 

“Sorry,” he murmured, trying to clear his head. He realized they could hear the hum of voices coming through the door. The reception was already in progress, just waiting for the arrival of the guest of honor. 

“'Although none among us can our fears allay / we throw ourselves once again into the fray,’” he murmured, quoting an ancient Tevinter poet.

And he opened the door.

Hours later, he found himself alone in his study, his private retreat and favorite room in the refurbished castle. He sprawled in the big chair in front of the fireplace, one long leg thrown over the arm, staring moodily into the flames. The Arl and the rest of his advisors hadn’t commanded him to choose tonight, but it had been strongly recommended. Strongly. So he tried to remember the names and faces of all the women he had met today, thinking of ways to narrow 10 down to a single one he thought he could spend the rest of his life with. 

No redheads. That was for sure. It would be … too difficult, seeing another woman with a cloud of red hair around her. That got him down to eight. 

Tall was also a must. He wanted someone who would not remind him of her physically. The short one had been too short, too close to dwarven height. Seven.

Two of them had been too imperious, too pushy, too much like Morrigan, he thought, his lip curling. Five.

One had no sense of humor at all. Hadn’t even cracked a smile at his jokes. Definitely couldn’t live with someone like that. Four.

Another one had been so shy, she could barely speak. He had trouble enough in this area, he didn’t need a wife who would be frightened of him. Three.

What were their names? Lidian, with the dark brown hair and the blue eyes. Bella, with the blond hair. And Dorothea, curly brown hair and warm brown eyes. He tried to picture all three of them together. Given the choice, he thought Bella seemed a bit chilly, a bit prissy. Strike Bella, he thought.

That left Lidian and Dorothea. Lidian’s father was Bann of a small hold near the Brecilian Forest; Dorothea’s father was a knight from Highever, a distant relative of the powerful Cousland family that had ruled that holding for so long. Looking at them objectively, he thought it was likely that the Landsmeet would prefer Dorothea, with her slightly higher bloodline but lesser connection to any particular holding. 

Alistair tossed back another glass of wine, glaring into the fire and cursing his blood. For that, he had broken the heart of the woman he loved and was about to toy with the affections of a perfectly nice girl, marrying her when his own heart lay far away in Amaranthine with another woman. And without any idea if he could … perform for another woman, or if he could produce a child. It could well be all for nothing. Wasn’t that just the story of his life, though?


	24. Temptation

Amaranthine was in decent shape, Thora had to admit. They would need to make some changes to take it from elegant castle to practical training ground and Warden fortress, but it was comfortable enough for their immediate needs. 

They’d sent messages around, letting people know that Thora had been injured on the road to Amaranthine, that she would recover, but the progress would be slow, hoping that would keep visitors at bay.

“Remind me again, Wynne, how I’m going to get all this work done while I’m stuck in my rooms ‘recuperating’?”, she’d asked. It had been decided that even the servants couldn’t get too close a look at the Warden Commander. Fortunately, they didn’t need a lot of servants for just the three of them and the mabari, so it was mostly contractors they’d have to worry about. 

Oghren took on the task of handling the contractors. He seemed to be relishing it, even managing to remain more or less sober. They knocked down walls, tore up carpets, and generally spent their time keeping the whole castle in an uproar.

Thora wrote to the Orlesian Grey Wardens to send on some books and other information regarding the Joining and the history of the Grey Wardens. She and Wynne went over the texts thoroughly, but could not find anything that would set their minds at ease about the welfare of the baby. It was an active child, kicking and punching at all hours, and appeared to be growing well. 

One day, about two months after they’d arrived, Thora was restlessly pacing her room, wondering how she was going to handle this for three more months. She heard Wynne’s familiar knock on the door.

“Come in,” she called impatiently. And jumped, startled, when the head poking itself around the doorway was not grey, but red. “Leliana!!”

The bard came the rest of the way into the room, with Wynne following. Leliana’s eyes widened in surprise. “My dear friend,” she said. “Wynne told me, but I didn’t really believe …” She stared at Thora’s belly. “It is so strange to see you without armor. You look …”

“Large,” Thora cut in. “I know. And getting bigger by the day.”

“That’s good, though, right?” Leliana came closer, giving Thora a gentle hug. 

“Better than the alternative,” Thora agreed. “But what are you doing here? I thought you’d be halfway back to Haven by now.”

Leliana shrugged. “You know the Chantry. It could take another year or two before what is promised becomes what is happening. So I found myself with some time on my hands.”

“Have you—?” Thora’s heart was pounding in her ears. She wanted to ask, but then again, she didn’t want to know.

“A minute and a half,” Wynne said. 

“You were right, my friend,” Leliana said, passing a coin over to the mage. At Thora’s raised eyebrows, she explained, “We had a bet going on how long it would take you to ask about him.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“As it happens, I have a letter here from a certain person for another certain person,” the bard said, taking a sealed envelope from her pocket and waving it around. Grinning, she handed it to Thora. “He wanted this carried by someone he could trust, and I wanted an excuse to come here and see some of my favorite people,” Leliana said. “Now I know you won’t be able to concentrate until you’ve read it, so I’ll come back in a little while and we’ll have a nice long visit.”

“How long can you stay?” Thora asked, clutching the envelope tightly. She could almost imagine she felt his heat coming off it. 

“A couple of weeks. Then I’ll have to get back, or the Chantry will forget all about the Haven trip. I have to practically perform miracles for every penny they squeeze out of their purse,” Leliana complained. She and Wynne left the room together, while Thora sank onto the bed, holding the envelope in hands that shook so hard she could barely break the seal. Part of her was reluctant to open it—from the timing, she was willing to bet it had something to do with his marriage, and she just didn’t want to know. As long as it wasn’t open, she could pretend he was writing to beg her to come back, and further fool herself into thinking that if he did that, she might go.

Finally, taking a deep breath, she unfolded the paper, her hand tracing the neat writing that spoke of years of Chantry training. 

_My love,_  
I’m sending this with Leliana, so can be less circumspect than I would otherwise have to be. I think you know why I am writing. Other than because I want to talk to you, to see you, to—be with you so desperately. But those thoughts belong to another life. In this one, I am writing to you to let you know that a bride and a wedding date have been chosen. The date will be two months hence, to give all the fancy folk a chance to arrive for the big day. I assume your injuries will prevent you from making the trip? (I further assume that you are healing well. If you … needed me, you would call for me? I hope?)   
My queen-to-be is a nice girl, named Dorothea. She seems to like me, for some reason, and laughs at my jokes, so that’s a plus. It isn’t the same, obviously, but is not as bad as I had expected. We will see how things go once everything is final. Some days, it seems I’ll wake up back in camp with you and all of this will be a more or less bad dream.   
If I write any more, I might just throw down the pen, saddle a horse, and deliver this message myself. Sometimes I wonder if you would be angry if I did that … or not.   
Love always,  
A.

The paper fell from her hands, and she sat with her arms crossed over her belly. One word from her and this would all stop—she knew it. He’d be at her side, they could raise their child together. For a mad moment, she stood up, ready to call to Leliana, to beg her to go and get him. Just the thought of being in his arms again, hearing his beloved voice, laughing at his ridiculous jokes, sent flashes of heat shooting all through her body.

Then the baby kicked violently, returning Thora to reality. She unlocked a drawer in her dresser, placing the note on top of a long red braid and a single beautiful rose, as perfect as it had been the day he had given it to her. Sighing, she closed and locked the drawer again and returned to her pacing.


	25. Irresistible

The paper in the drawer—his words—called to her. Too many times Thora went back, unlocking the drawer, pulling the letter halfway out, then putting it back again. “Don’t be ridiculous!” she scolded herself. She took up her sword and dagger from the bracket on the wall, going through her forms, trying to keep herself in shape. After all, once the baby was born they’d get a full complement of recruits, and she’d have to be ready to be their commander. Which meant not letting her skills atrophy.

But she couldn’t concentrate. She was flooded with memories of all the battles she’d fought with Alistair at her side, his sword and shield always there. He’d never faltered, never let her down. Her eyes fell on the key glinting in the lock on the drawer. Hadn’t he proven that she could rely on him? 

In disgust, she tossed the swords on the floor, not caring where they fell, and sat down next to a pile of books on Grey Warden history, paging through, trying to study. But every page seemed imprinted with him. She remembered coming out of Flemeth’s hut in the Wilds, seeing the tears on his face as he mourned his comrades, fallen at Ostagar. He’d lost everyone he cared about that day. She’d replaced his Grey Warden family with their little group, but then she’d left him all alone, in Denerim, in the name of duty.

She pushed the books away and took up a roll of plans for the redesign of the north wing into a barracks. Thora tried to focus on the architect’s renderings, but couldn’t. Instead she saw Alistair’s face the night he’d given her that rose, how he had looked at her—so trusting but so tentative. It had taken him so much time to be willing to trust her with his heart. And what had she done? Kept him at arm’s length, hiding the most precious thing they shared from him.

Giving a great sigh, she dropped the papers in disarray on the table. She went to the drawer, unlocking it and taking out the letter. She read and reread it, her heart and mind locked in a desperate struggle.

She was still there when the knock came at the door, and Leliana and Wynne entered. Thora looked up at the two humans as they came into the room, her brown eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do this any longer,” she said. “I don’t know what possessed me to think I could.”

“Which part, my friend?” Leliana glanced worriedly at Wynne, then rushed to the dwarf’s side, putting her arms around Thora’s shoulders.

“The Alistair part. The part where I didn’t tell him. The part where I’m trying to do this without him even knowing about it, so far away from him, not seeing him. I can’t do it any more.” She looked at Leliana in misery. “I know you just got here, and I hate to ask, but … will you go and get him? Tell him I—I need him?”

Wynne sucked her breath in, shocked. “My dear,” she said. “Are you sure?”

“I know you think I’ve been unfair to him,” Thora said. 

“I understood,” Wynne said. “You had your reasons. They were good reasons.”

“But not good enough.” Thora put the letter back in the drawer, shutting it and locking it once more. “Leliana, will you go?”

The bard nodded. “Of course I will.”  
\----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----  
Practicing against a training dummy was far less satisfying than fighting actual darkspawn, Alistair reflected, removing his sword from the dummy’s midsection. It kept him in shape, but he was afraid his battle skills were getting rusty.

He heard a scuffle behind him, then a guard’s embarrassed cough. “Pardon me, Sister. I didn’t recognize you.” Alistair turned to see Leliana removing herself from the guard’s clutches. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I saw this woman come rushing through and thought— Well, I didn’t realize she was the Sister,” the guard said apologetically.

What was Leliana doing back so soon? She’d only left five days ago. Was there something wrong? He pulled his attention back to the guard with difficulty. “Oh. It’s all right, Dirnley. Mistakes happen.”

The guard stepped back into place as Alistair caught Leliana by the arm, dragging her out of earshot. “What’s wrong? Is she— Oh, Maker … she’s all right, isn’t she?”

The bard looked at him seriously. “She’s all right, Alistair. You’re not to worry.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “But she asked me to come get you. She says to tell you … she needs you.”

“Needs me? Needs me how? Leliana, what aren’t you telling me?”

“Things that are not my place to tell you. Please, Alistair, don’t ask me.”

He shook her arm, opening his mouth to order her to tell him, but something in her face stopped him. “Blast it all!” he said, looking up at the sky. It was late afternoon, nearly dusk. Too late to leave now. “Dirnley!” he shouted, turning from Leliana toward the guard. “Go to the stables, tell them to have a horse and provisions for a day’s journey ready for me tomorrow. Are you coming with me?” he tossed over his shoulder at Leliana. 

She nodded, sighing. “I’m going to get quite tired of the road between here and Amaranthine, I can see,” she said.

Alistair nodded. “Make it two horses. With stamina.” He judged they could do the full distance in a day if they pushed the horses hard.

“Your Majesty, two horses?” Dirnley said. “What about— Don’t you need a retinue?”

“No, not this trip,” Alistair said. “Leliana, I’ll see you first thing in the morning. First thing, you understand.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she said, curtsying.

Alistair turned from her and fairly ran into the castle to tell Arl Eamon he was going to be gone for an indeterminate amount of time. The Arl was almost certainly not going to understand, and Alistair didn’t care at all.


	26. The Truth

Thora stood next to her window, waiting. She’d seen the horse come into the courtyard, lathering and spent from a day’s hard riding, had seen Alistair jump down from the horse’s back almost before it stopped, and now could hear his voice shouting. “Where is she? Wynne, I swear, if someone doesn’t tell me what’s going on I’ll—“ The voice broke off, and Thora could just distinguish Wynne’s voice. Her heart pounded, equal parts excited and terrified. How angry would he be? Part of her hoped maybe he wouldn’t be angry, but the rest of her believed that part was over-optimistic, at best. It wouldn’t be long now. She sensed him in her blood as he climbed the stairs, heard the firm tread of his booted feet down the hall, and could almost feel his breathing as he paused outside the door. 

He was so nervous about what he might find on the other side that it took everything he had to reach for the doorknob. She was in there—he could feel her, his skin humming with her nearness. He watched his hand as though it belonged to someone else as he turned the knob and pushed the door open. And then the door was open and one long stride carried him into the room. He could barely see her now that dusk had fallen, but she was there. He didn’t even register anything beyond her white face, the wide brown eyes staring at him, her lips slightly parted. “Maker’s breath!” he breathed. And then he was on his knees in front of her, gathering the small body in his arms, folding her close as he had dreamed of doing so many nights, burying his face in her shoulder. “This has been the longest two months of my life,” he murmured brokenly.

Thora breathed a sigh of relief at the momentary reprieve, sliding her arms around him in return. Everything else seemed unimportant now that he was holding her again. She breathed him in, soaking his warmth into her very bones, clinging to him.

Slowly the life-giving embrace began to change tone. His hands slid down over her back as his mouth began to move up the side of her neck, the familiar taste of her skin intoxicating him. Thora threaded her hands in his hair, closing her eyes as her body came alive under his touch. But she felt the roundness of her belly in between them, dispelling the haze. She pushed his head away from her neck, looking deep into his dark eyes. “Alistair,” she whispered.

“Yes, my love?” His eyes were still hot on hers, his hands still roaming over her back, distracting her. 

“I— I asked you to come here for a reason,” she said, disentangling herself. She went around the room, lighting the lamps.

“That sounds awfully ominous.”

“A little,” she said. She didn’t turn after she had lit the last lamp, not wanting him to see before she told him. “I lied to you.”

“Lied? About what?”

“When I left Denerim. And when I sent you that note.”

“You were never injured? I suspected as much.”

“Alistair … I’m not injured. I’m pregnant.” Now she turned, her hands resting on the gentle curve of her belly.

Alistair’s mouth dropped open. In all his feverish imaginings on the way here, this had never crossed his mind. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered.

“I had … reasons. Good reasons, they seemed at the time. Duty, you know.”

“I’m sorry, it was your duty not to tell me we were going to have a child?” He got up off his knees. 

“At first, yes, it was,” she said firmly. “I … You would never have let me fight in Denerim if you’d known, and I was needed for that final battle. We both know that.” 

“B— But … But after that?” he spluttered. “You left. Without telling me. You told me you wouldn’t see me for a year.” He broke off, his eyes widening as he stared at her. “Maker’s blood! Were you planning on not telling me at all?” His hands clenched. 

“NO!” she cried, shocked. “Just … not until after you were married. And the baby was born. And you had an heir.”

“What, because you liked the irony? You wanted our baby to grow up just like his father?” He paused for a moment, then went on, thoughtfully. “You know, when I was growing up—in the stables, then abandoned in the Chantry—there was one thing I used to promise myself. One thing I was sure I would never do. You know what that was?” 

She flinched from the look on his face, even though this was essentially the reaction she’d expected. “Never father an illegitimate child?” she whispered.

“Never father an illegitimate child,” he confirmed. “And now, thanks to you, I’ll have two of them!” His voice rose until he was shouting at her, all his height towering over her menacingly.

A wave of anger swept through her as well. Did he think this past year had been her idea of fun? She put her hands on her hips, standing her ground. “I wasn’t the only one in that tent, you know! You told me Grey Wardens couldn’t have children together.”

“Well, what were you listening to me for?”

“I’ve certainly learned that lesson now!”

He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Right. I guess I’ve single-handedly destroyed the idea that Grey Wardens have trouble procreating.” He looked back at her, his face set and hard. “You didn’t answer the question. Why didn’t you tell me in Denerim?”

“Because … I didn’t think you’d go through with it if you knew.”

“Didn’t think I’d what? Become king? Marry another woman and have a child with her? What’s one more, right?” She crossed her arms over her chest, as if to protect herself from his sarcasm. “Did it ever cross your mind that maybe I should have a say in that decision, or did you think you were in charge of making all my decisions for me?”

“You put me in charge,” she said. “Back in Lothering.”

“Lothering! And nothing at all changed between Lothering and the end of the Blight? I get it,” he said. “You can put me on the throne, let me run a kingdom, but you can’t trust me.”

“You broke up with me!” she cried. “Remember? Human woman, untainted blood, legitimate heir, any of that ring a bell?”

“But I didn’t have all the facts, did I?”

“You were right, though. Your reign needs a legitimate human heir of Theirin blood.”

“Oh, damn my Theirin blood!” he shouted. “I never asked for it, or any of this.”

“And I did? Or the baby?” she asked softly. As if in response to her words, Thora felt the baby move inside her. She put her hand over the spot, not noticing the hungry look in Alistair’s eyes as he watched the change in her face. Everything he wanted, right there in one package—the woman he loved and their child—and she had kept it from him. “There’s another reason I didn’t tell you before.”

“Oh, this should be good.”

“Wynne and I—we’ve studied. We’ve pored over books. But we can’t be sure the baby won’t be … tainted. Wrong, somehow.” 

“Holy Andraste! That’s … horrifying.” He closed his eyes, the image all too clear. 

“I first knew—about the baby—after we fought the Broodmother,” she said, her voice trembling. “And I couldn’t—couldn’t get past the fear that I would turn out like her, that the baby would be some kind of darkspawn.”

“You must have been terrified.” 

“I have been. I am. I— That’s why I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t think it was fair to tell you that we were going to have a baby … and then have to tell you that the baby wasn’t—wasn’t—“ She couldn’t finish. “I thought it would be easier on you not to know. Just in case.”

“So you decided to be a martyr, to suffer your terror in silence, to, what, shelter me?”

“I didn’t want you to be hurt!” 

“You didn’t want me to be hurt. That’s why you lied to me, left me, and took my baby with you. Because you didn’t think that was going to hurt?!” He was absolutely thundering at her now.

“I’m sorry! I realized how wrong I’d been, and that’s why I … called for you now. Instead of waiting.” She looked up at him, her eyes filled with misery. “I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head, unable to bridge the gap between them. “There’s so much to think about,” he said. “I— I need to be alone.” He backed out of the room, nearly running, leaving her weeping and alone.


	27. Boot in the Backside

After a full day he was still unable to go back into her room. He wanted to. Maker, how he wanted to. Wanted to hold her, to press his hand to her belly and feel their child growing within her. But the anger and hurt formed a wall that he smacked into every time he started to go back to her.

Alistair stood on the parapet of the keep at sunset, looking out over the city. He could have been happy here, as the Grey Warden he’d been meant to be, if she’d let him. But no, she had to make him King of Ferelden. He liked being able to make changes—giving the Dalish part of the Brecilian Forest as a homeland, improving relations with Orzammar, trying to help his people rebuild after the Blight. Anora probably wouldn’t have done as well at those things. The lives of the elves in the Alienage would certainly not have improved under Anora. Maybe making him king hadn’t been a mistake, he thought unwillingly. But that still didn’t change the fact that she’d slunk off without telling him about his own baby. Morrigan he could understand that kind of thing from, but Thora? Thora the honest and honorable? 

He gave a great cry of pain and frustration, wishing for a sword, a shield, and a mass of darkspawn.

Behind him, he heard a wet rumbling sound, and he turned, startled, to see Oghren spit … something … over the parapet. “Tryin’ to get that up all day,” the dwarf said. “Now. What in the Trenches are you doing, boy?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You. Mopin’ around up here, lettin’ her sit down there alone.”

“Is it any of your business?”

“I think so, yeah. ‘Cause you two young people need a good solid metal boot in the backside, and I’m just the bugger to give it to ya.”

Alistair shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

“I don’t, huh? The woman I loved took our whole house and ran off after a big hunk of iron. Left me behind without so much as a note to say ‘sod off’.”

“She didn’t lie to you, at least.”

“Didn’t care enough to bother, as it turns out.” Oghren gave a short, barking laugh.

“That’s an interesting way of looking at it.”

“Look, if it makes you feel better, I thought she should’ve told you.”

“You knew?” Alistair’s eyes flashed. Had she told everyone but him?

“Not ’til we left Denerim. Couldn’t help tellin’ me then; I was gonna see it soon enough. And I told her she should tell you. But she thought she was doin’ the right thing.” Oghren shrugged, looking out over the parapet. “And you know what she’s like when she thinks she’s doin’ right.”

Alistair sighed. He did know. 

“I’ll agree, she was mighty high-handed, boy. But ya gotta understand, she’s a soldier. Take orders; give orders. It’s what she knows. Not to mention, much as she hates to admit it, she’s a sodding princess. She’s never had to ask anybody’s opinion. Doesn’t excuse what she did, but it does explain it.”

Glancing down at the dwarf, Alistair could see what he was driving at, but the hurt bubbled up in him all over again. He clenched his jaw. What did it matter that she was a commander, and a princess? She was supposed to love him, and she hadn’t given a thought to his feelings!

“There’s nothin’ you love as much as feelin’ sorry for yourself, is there, whelp?” Oghren growled.

“Hey! That’s … an exaggeration,” Alistair said indignantly. 

“You been doin’ it all across this country. While she’s been totin’ us all along on her back, makin’ all the decisions we didn’t want to have to make. Now you want to get mad at her for doin’ it again?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“No, it’s this simple.” Oghren’s eyes were clear and sober as he looked up at the younger man. “If you love her, you’ve got to find a way to forgive her.”

Alistair looked at the dwarf, the words striking a chord deep within him. “Could you have forgiven Branka?”

“Branka was a bleedin’ lunatic, but you bet I’d‘ve forgiven her, if she’d felt half as much for me as that girl does for you.”

“What about Felsi?”

“Felsi’s a right witch and her tongue could flay a bronto, but I’d forgive her just about anything. ‘Cause I know how she feels about me, no matter what she says.”

“What if Thora does this again?”

“And what if she’s learned her lesson? You gonna make both of ya miserable just in case someone gets their feelings hurt again? That’s gonna happen, no matter what. It’s how ya fix it that counts.” Oghren glared up at Alistair. “Now, I’d like to pretend you have a choice here, but if you don’t get your butt down there and make up with that girl, I’m gonna drop-kick you off this parapet like a sodding nug. Got it?”

“You know that would be regicide, right?” The dwarf gave a deep chuckle Alistair didn’t entirely like. “On second thought, why don’t I get right on that?” 

“Good call, son.”


	28. Reunion

She turned from the window as she heard the soft knock on the door. “Come in,” she said tonelessly, trying to prepare herself for anything.

He stepped inside, looking mostly uncomfortable. She couldn’t tell what was beneath it. “Hello.”

“You’re still here,” she said.

“Did you think I would leave without telling you?”

“I didn’t know what you would do.”

“I love you. You know that. I couldn’t have done that to you.”

“And I love you—so much.” The words spilled forth in a rush. “It nearly broke my heart to have to leave like that. I never meant to hurt you, or to make you feel like I didn’t trust you. I just thought … I’m so sorry, Alistair. So very sorry.”

“I know. I understand. Really, I do.” He spread his hands out helplessly before him. “It’s just once more in a lifetime of people making my decisions for me without stopping to ask me how I feel, or what I think. I never expected that from you, of all people.” 

“What would you have done, if I’d told you?”

“Abdicated. Or insisted the Landsmeet accept you as queen and our baby as the royal heir.”

“And how would that have gone?” she asked.

“Oh, badly. Quite badly, I’m sure.” She was relieved to see him grin. “I’d have made a right mess of the whole kingdom. As it turns out, not telling me was probably the right thing to do for Ferelden. But it was the wrong thing for us.”

“At the time there was no ‘us’.”

“We both know it’s not really like that,” he said softly. “Don’t we? No matter what else happens, there’s always an ‘us’. My heart belongs to you, and it always will.” Alistair swallowed hard, seeing the tear that spilled down her cheek. He held his arms out to her and with a cry of relief she ran to him. After a long moment he said, “Thora?”

She leaned back to look up at his face.

“As far as I’m concerned, this is all behind us. You did what you thought was right.” He took a deep breath. “But never again. From now on, we need to make our decisions together. Promise me.” 

“I promise.”

One big hand stroked her short crop of red-gold hair as he went down on one knee before her. His other hand hovered just above her belly. “May I?” he asked in a whisper.

“Please.” Her voice quivered. She’d dreamed of this moment so many times.

His hand gently settled on the rounded curve of her stomach. “Do you think I’ll be able to feel him move?”

“I think she’s not big enough yet.” 

Alistair caught the pronoun. He grinned at her. “Two sovereigns says it’s a boy.”

“Done!” Their eyes met. The heat she felt in his gaze melted through her and she twined her arms around his neck. He gave a surprised moan as her mouth met his, then his arms moved around her, clutching her to him as they kissed feverishly. 

Breathing hard, he took her by the shoulders, holding his hands still with difficulty. “Is it— Is it safe?” he asked raggedly.

“Safe?” she repeated blankly, her hands sliding under his shirt to feel the smooth skin and rigid muscles she had missed so much. “Oh, safe! Yes, Wynne says it should be fine.”

“Did you ask her?” 

“She came in before you arrived and ‘happened’ to slip that little tidbit into the conversation.” Thora grinned. “She’s come a long way from lecturing me about what a bad idea this is.”

He caressed her belly, laughing. “I think she figures it’s much too late for us to get that message.” Alistair slid his hands under her tunic, pushing it up and over her head. He swallowed, staring at her curves, both remembered and new. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, his hands tracing what his eyes were devouring.

Thora caught her breath, all the familiar sensations making her head swim. “What about your wi— queen?” she asked.

His mouth sought out the hollow of her throat, moving slowly up her neck. “I’m not married yet. I’ve made no vows to break,” he said firmly. “I’m free to do what I … like.” His hands sought and found long-remembered sensitive spots.

Moaning, Thora allowed him to push her gently back onto the bed. “We have a lot to talk about,” she said, threading her fingers through his hair and holding him to her.

“Tomorrow,” he murmured in her ear. “Or the next day.” Which sounded fine to her as he stripped off his own clothes and joined her—at last—in the bed.


	29. Decisions

“That’s just ridiculous!” came Thora’s voice through the door.

“Well, that’s how it’s going to be.” Alistair’s was just as loud, but implacable rather than furious.

“You are as stubborn as the very Stone!”

“Takes one to know one, doesn’t it?”

Wynne and Leliana exchanged glances as they stood in the hallway. “How long has this been going on?” Leliana asked.

“Most of the morning.”

“You been out here listenin’, Wynne? Hear anything … dirty?” Oghren leered at the mage.

“Bits and pieces,” Wynne said, blushing. “I left for that part.”

“What are they arguing about?”

“That’s hard to tell. Mostly they get loud when they’re slinging insults. Or … um, making up for lost time.”

“Should we … go in there?”

“And get a sodding lamp thrown at our heads?” Oghren stared at Leliana like she’d suddenly grown a bronto’s horn. “Not bleedin’ likely. Look, those two need to get all this out of their systems and learn how to talk to each other. Ah, many’s the time Branka and I had screamin’ matches that made this one sound like a deshyr’s ball … and we didn’t need no one comin’ in to help us make it up, if you know what I mean.” Both women grimaced. They knew. “Let ‘em be. It’s a messy world they’ve made for themselves. No one but them can clean it up.” He grabbed Wynne and Leliana by the arms and pulled them down the hall and away from the door.

Inside the room, Thora was trying to stay calm. “Alistair, you can’t be serious. It’s a nice idea, but it just won’t work.”

“It’ll have to work, because this is not under discussion.” 

“You really intend to openly acknowledge our baby?” She sighed. “That’s going to complicate everything. You know that, right?”

“Ask me how much I care.” He glared at her, daring her. Thora shook her head. “I’m not going to make an announcement to the bloody Council or anything,” he said impatiently, “but I will absolutely not have my son—“

“Daughter,” she murmured, just to be stubborn about it.

“Whatever! My child is not going to grow up the way I did, shuffled from pillar to post and unwanted wherever he—she—goes.”

“Do you think I was going to let that happen?” She glared at him, outraged.

“I don’t have any idea what you were going to ‘let happen’, now, do I?” he asked. “Exactly what was your plan, anyway?”

“I was going to put it about that a baby had been left here, to be dedicated to the Grey Wardens.”

“Interesting. Might even have sounded plausible, although I don’t think anyone’s ever done that before. Nevertheless, we’re not going to do it that way.”

“Whatever happened to making all of our decisions together?”

“Did I say that?” he said in feigned innocence. “Because what I meant to say was that now that I’m King, I’m getting used to making a few of my own decisions—and I kind of like it.” He grinned at her. “See what you’ve done?”

“Created a monster, apparently,” she sighed, flopping onto the bed.

“That gives me an idea,” he said, eyeing her reclining form appreciatively. “Don’t you think it’s time for another break?”

“Alistair!” she protested, laughing. “I think there’s a limit to how much one baby can take, don’t you?”

“Let’s find out.” He laid an ear to her stomach. “How you doing in there? ‘Oh, fine, Daddy,’” he answered his own question in a ridiculous baby voice. “’Go ahead, I’ll just take a nap.’” He looked back up at Thora. “See? Baby’s fine with it.”

“You are completely impossible, you know that?” It felt unreal to be here with him, laughing this way. Hearing him refer to himself as “Daddy” had nearly taken her breath away. These were the moments she had dreamed of, just normal moments together. Thora sighed, pushing him away before she could get too used to it. “But we’re not done here.”

“Fine. But if we’re not going to take advantage of this nice soft bed— You’re sure we’re not going to take advantage?” She shook her head. “Be that way, then. If we’re not going to, we’re going out. A nice walk will do you good.”

“People will see me!”

“And since we’re not hiding this any more, that doesn’t matter, does it?” he said with exaggerated patience.

Still protesting, she allowed herself to be led out of the room and outside. She had to admit, the sunshine felt lovely. “What exactly am I going to say when people ask me about the baby?”

“The truth?”

“Right. Affair with the king, having his bastard. That won’t be at all embarrassing.”

“Should have thought of that before, shouldn’t you?” He grinned down at her. “Have I mentioned today how beautiful you are?”

“I can’t say I feel it,” she said, looking down at her midsection. She could tell the difference in the way she walked, and she knew the dragging awkwardness would be a problem if she had to fight any battles. “I’m all … ungainly.”

“You are the loveliest woman in all of Thedas,” he said.

She smiled up at him, her special smile for him that warmed him all the way through. “Let’s see you say that when I’m twice this big and even more awkward.”

“You think I won’t?”

“I think you’ll be in Denerim with your queen.”

“I will absolutely be here with you when our child is born, I don’t care what it takes.” He got that look on his face again, and she knew better than to bother arguing with him, or trying to point out the complicated logistics involved. She’d worn herself out arguing already today. “Unless you’d rather come to Denerim to have the baby. We have healers and … and it might be safer.” He looked worried.

“I have a healer here—Wynne. Who has saved both of our lives more times than I can count. And I also have Oghren and probably Leliana, both of whom I can trust with my life. I think Denerim would be far more dangerous.” At his questioning look, she said, “I suspect there are people out there who won’t be too happy that I’m having your baby … and wouldn’t mind doing something about that.”

“But the baby will be half-dwarf, and therefore not a threat to any legitimate heirs.” 

“I don’t think that will make the Council feel any better, do you? Some of them might well object on principle to the Theirin blood being mingled with dwarven blood.”

“You don’t think any of the Council would—“ He broke off, looking vaguely horrified.

“No, honestly I don’t,” she said. “But remember that I grew up in the midst of all these political machinations. I’m a bit paranoid where these things are concerned. At any rate, even beyond issues of safety, that would seem like a slap in the face to the queen, to have me there having your baby in Denerim.” 

“Point taken,” he said, sighing.

“Out of curiosity, what are you planning to tell her?”

“Dorothea?” He frowned. “I suppose I’ll have to tell her the truth.”

“I’m sure that’ll go well,” Thora said. “Because women love that kind of thing.”

“Full disclosure?”

“Not as much as you seem to think.” 

“I’m hardly going to marry the poor girl with all this going on and not tell her about it,” he said. 

“You think she’ll still marry you after you tell her? I wouldn’t.”

“Who are you kidding?” he said, grinning. “You’d marry me no matter what I’d done.”

“Possibly.” She grinned back, her heart full nearly to bursting. This whole interlude was so unexpected, she’d almost stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“You know I have to go back tomorrow.” Thud. “I’m surprised Eamon hasn’t been after me already. If he didn’t know about us—“

“Eamon knows? How does Eamon know?”

“Ah.” Alistair touched the braided chain holding his mother’s amulet. “Apparently my mother had brown hair. And of course, Eamon knew that the amulet hadn’t always been on such a lovely chain.”

“I guess we should have thought of that,” Thora said ruefully. “Has that helped at all? That Eamon knows? Or does it make it worse?”

Alistair shrugged. “A bit of both, really. I’m sure he’s going to be thrilled with recent developments.”

“That ought to be quite the conversation,” Thora agreed. “I’m glad I’ll be here.”

He turned to her, stricken. “Maker, I don’t want to have to leave you. Are you sure I have to go through with this, the getting married and all that?”

Thora nodded miserably. “I assume you agree,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to feel I was making this decision without consulting you.” Brief smiles flickered across both their faces.

“No, I agree. It’s what’s best for Ferelden.” Swallowing hard, Alistair went on, not meeting her eyes, “Thora—I intend to try and do right by her. You understand? After I leave tomorrow … it’s back to friends and partners.”

“And parents.”

“And parents,” he agreed, the concept sending a thrill of happiness through him, despite all the complications. “Have I mentioned that I’m so glad this is happening with you first? I mean, yes, awkward timing and all, but … I’m so glad we’re going to have this to share.”

“Me, too,” she said. They embraced there in the courtyard, much to the relief of the three pairs of eyes watching them over the top of the parapet.


	30. Return to Denerim

Alistair arrived back in Denerim in something of a daze. Despite the unyielding stance he had taken with Thora, he was far from looking forward to the repercussions of acknowledging their baby. It was what he wanted to do, and he felt strongly that it was the right thing to do, but he had no illusions about how his advisors and the Council—and his intended queen—would react once they knew. He had carefully timed his arrival for late at night, to get a hopefully good night’s sleep in before he had to approach Eamon and Dorothea. He had a late dinner served in his room, wolfed it down, and went to bed, missing Thora. Two brief nights spent sleeping next to her had spoiled him for sleeping alone all over again. Every time he rolled over he expected her to be there, her warm body and soft, rounded stomach with his baby inside it there to put his arms around.

The morning dawned both all too early and not at all soon enough after a restless night. And with his breakfast tray came a nearly frantic Arl Eamon. “Alistair, have we not talked about this kind of thing? A king simply cannot take off one morning and be gone for days at a time with no warning!”

“I’m sorry. There were … circumstances.” Alistair groaned, climbing out of bed.

“What kind of circumstances?” Eamon asked suspiciously. “Alistair, what have you done?”

“Nothing! Er, I mean, that is to say, nothing recently.” He blushed. Eamon waited, tapping his foot on the floor, while Alistair attacked his plate of ham and eggs. “That’s better,” he said, swallowing half the cup of coffee at one gulp. “So here’s the thing.” Alistair walked over to the window, not particularly wanting to see Eamon’s face when this little revelation dropped. “Thora’s pregnant.”

“You’re joking,” Eamon said explosively. When Alistair didn’t react, he said more hesitantly, “Tell me you’re joking?”

“Nope. She thinks she’s about three months away from the baby being born.” He tried to be suitably penitent, but he really couldn’t. Alistair turned to Eamon, his eyes sparkling. “I’m going to be a father!”

Eamon dropped his head into his hands, groaning. “Well, that’s wonderful for the two of you, but it presents us with a bit of a problem, doesn’t it? How are we going to keep this from getting out?”

“We’re not.”

“What did you say? Because it sounded like you said ‘we’re not’,” Eamon said faintly. “I know that’s not what you meant to say.”

“It’s absolutely what I meant. Look, Eamon,” Alistair said, turning to the older man. “I spent the better part of a day arguing this with Thora, and I won. Please don’t think you’re going to succeed where she failed. This is my child coming into the world—my child with a woman I love. I am not ashamed of her or of our baby, and I would be with her today if Ferelden would accept a dwarf as queen.”

“Oh, no, Alistair. You’re not suggesting that, are you?” Eamon stared at the king in horror.

“No, I’m not. She wouldn’t agree to it, anyway. She’s much more politically savvy than I am.”

“Who isn’t?” 

“True enough.” Alistair grinned. “I’m not about to make an announcement about it, you understand, Eamon, but I don’t intend to try and hide it, either. I’m not going to be like my father, and my son won’t grow up the way I did.” At Eamon’s stricken look, Alistair shrugged uncomfortably. “You did your best, I know that, but it wasn’t the same as growing up with a father’s love and care. And that’s what my son is going to get from me. No matter what the rest of the country thinks.”

“Your son?”

“Or daughter. That’s what Thora thinks—that it’s a girl.”

“Maker, I hope so,” Eamon muttered. “My boy, you are a politician’s nightmare.”

“You’re the one who wanted me on the throne.”

“I’m beginning to think civil war was a more reasonable option than I’d given it credit for,” Eamon groaned. “Have you given any thought to what you’re going to tell Dorothea? Who has been most confused, may I add, since I could hardly tell her that you’d gone to visit your ex-lover.”

Sighing, Alistair said, “I intend to tell her the truth.”

“Which parts?”

“About my history with Thora, about our child, and that … it’s over except for the friendship and parenthood we share.” 

“Is it?”

“As much as it ever will be. I’ll always love her—I can’t help that—but I can help what I do. And as far as that’s concerned, it’s over.”

“Well, I hope that will be enough for Dorothea,” Eamon sighed. “Under the circumstances, the sooner you produce an heir, the better.” His eyes widened as he began to consider all the ramifications of Alistair having a baby with a dwarf Grey Warden. “At some point, after the baby’s born, I’d like to sit down with you and Thora and talk about your parents.”

“I’d like that,” Alistair said, eyeing the older man curiously, “but why with Thora? Is— Does this have something to do with the baby?”

“We’ll talk after the baby is born,” Eamon said hastily. “Er, how is she, anyway?”

“Thora? Cranky. Glowing. Lovely,” Alistair said, his eyes shining as he thought of her. Eamon’s heart smote him as he began to realize just how much in love the young man truly was. It was too bad the Commander wasn’t human, he thought, leaving the room.

Alistair, left alone, sighed. “Well, that could have gone worse,” he said to himself. “Now for the other one.” This one wouldn’t go as well, he suspected. 

Hours later, after dealing with stacks of papers and several meetings that he’d missed while he was gone, he presented himself at Arl Eamon’s palace, where Dorothea and her family were staying until the wedding. Eamon met him at the door. “I assume you’re here to—“

“Yes,” Alistair said. “Let’s get it over with. And hope she’s still speaking to me an hour from now.”


	31. Full Disclosure

Eamon showed Alistair into the sitting room where Dorothea was waiting. She stood up, a hesitant smile curving her soft mouth. Fresh from Thora’s side, Alistair thought how very tall Dorothea seemed. It was going to be strange, getting used to being with a woman who was that size. Oh, Maker, what was wrong with him, obsessing over her height? He ran a hand through his hair.

“Dorothea,” he said, trying to smile at her. “I hope you’re well?”

“Oh, yes, perfectly,” she said. She was watching him closely. Alistair wondered what she saw. “I hope your trip was uneventful.”

He gave a surprised laugh. “Uneventful is not the word I would use, no. But while … surprising, the events weren’t necessarily … bad.” At least, he hoped she would think so. “Dorothea, perhaps we should sit down.”

“Certainly, Your Majesty.”

“Please, could you call me Alistair? I mean, really this time. If we’re going to be married—“

“If?” Her eyes caught his, startled. “I thought it was settled.” 

“That,” he said carefully, “will be up to you. In the meantime, I need you to call me by my name instead of my title. Please?” Unconsciously, he used his most winning look, the one even Thora could rarely resist.

“Of course,” Dorothea said, smiling at him. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is. Now, please, will you also come sit down? I’m really not used to all this … formality. I haven’t been a noble for very long, you know.”

“You were a Grey Warden before, right?” She sat down on the chaise, gesturing to him to sit as well.

Alistair took a chair across from her, leaning forward toward her. “I am still a Grey Warden. Being a Grey Warden is something that is, quite literally, in your blood. You don’t just stop.”

Dorothea shivered. “In your blood? That doesn’t sound pleasant.”

“It’s not, particularly. It means a couple of things that you need to know about, before you agree that you want to get married to me.”

She took a deep breath, waiting.

“The first is that I won’t live a full lifespan. It’s a little less than 30 years, I would say, before the taint in my blood becomes too much and I’ll—die.” Dorothea gasped, looking horrified. Alistair shrugged uncomfortably. “It’s not so bad, really. The … second part is a bit more troubling, and will affect you personally a bit more.” Her eyes widened in something that looked like fear. “It won’t hurt you, I promise,” he said hastily. “Nothing like that.” He swallowed. “Due to the taint in the blood, it is very difficult for a Grey Warden to father a child.”

“Oh,” she said softly.

“As you may know, one reason that it is important that I marry quickly is to ensure the succession of the Theirin line by providing the kingdom with an heir. However, it is entirely possible that it won’t happen.” He stood up, running a hand through his hair. 

After a moment, Dorothea said, “All right, I think I understand. Is the shorter lifespan and the … problem with having children all I need to know?”

He shook his head. “Not entirely. Those are the problems that come with being a Grey Warden. There is another … complication that I think you need to know about before you make your agreement to this marriage final.” Alistair turned to look at the young woman on the chaise. “How much do you know about the ending of the Blight?”

“That you and some companions were responsible for it? You killed the Archdemon and ended the civil war,” said Dorothea. “Is there more I should know?”

“Yes. Yes, there is. You’re aware, I hope, that I was not the one who actually killed the Archdemon?”

“Of course. That was the dwarf, wasn’t it—the Hero of Ferelden. What’s her name?”

“Thora.”

“That’s it. I’m sorry, Your—I mean, Alistair, but what does this have to do with whether we get married or not?” Dorothea’s soft voice had taken on a slight edge by this point.

“Actually, Thora has a fair amount to do with the question. You see … Well, we traveled together for some time before the end of the Blight, and during that time, we …” He could feel the blood rushing to his head, and knew he must be bright red. “We fell in love.”

Whatever Dorothea had been expecting, it clearly hadn’t been that. “You what?”

“We fell in love.” He took a deep breath, and decided to just get the rest of it out. “And became … lovers, and are going to have a child.”

She stared at him, open-mouthed.

“Dorothea?”

“I— I don’t even know what to say to all of that,” she said, dazed. “You’re serious?”

He nodded, watching her closely, hoping to see some sign that she might be accepting this. 

“Do you still love her?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“So is your … relationship still—?”

He shook his head. “No. When it became obvious I was going to have to take the throne, well—a dwarf cannot be queen, and a dwarf’s child cannot be the heir to the kingdom,” he said, each word painful. “We stopped being with each other at that point.”

“A little too late, apparently.”

“As it turns out,” he agreed. 

“When is the child due?”

“A few months.”

“And when it is born? What do you intend to do then?”

He looked her straight in the eyes. This part he would not be moved on, not by anyone. “I intend my child to know that I am its father, and I don’t care who else knows. I won’t make an announcement, but I won’t deny it, either. I take responsibility for my actions.”

Dorothea got up, walking aimlessly around the room for a moment. At last she sighed. “I have to admit, Alistair, you don’t paint a pretty picture of what your queen will have to deal with.”

“No, perhaps not,” he admitted.

She looked at him, and he winced at the pain he saw in her brown eyes. “I knew, of course, that this marriage was being arranged for political reasons. But I … had hoped that perhaps it could be a real one, for all that.”

“I intend it to be a real marriage,” he said.

“When your heart belongs to another woman, when you won’t even pretend to me that it doesn’t, and when that other woman is about to have a child you intend to openly admit to having fathered?” she said, and he could hear the strain in her voice. “That’s not … what a woman hopes for when a handsome king asks her to marry him.”

Alistair sighed, turning away from her, rubbing the back of his neck. “I suppose it isn’t. I’m sorry if telling you all this wasn’t the right thing to do. I just—I’m not good at … not being me.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I’m a little awkward, prone to make mistakes, don’t really know what I’m doing a lot of the time … and am terribly bad at not telling the truth. Arl Eamon called me a ‘politician’s nightmare’, and it’s a pretty good description.” He turned back to look at her. “And now you know pretty much all there is to know. I promise that from this point forward, you will be the only woman I am with, and I will respect and care for you. Our child will be the heir to the throne. I will remain friends with the Grey Warden Commander of Ferelden, and will give her the respect and honor she deserves as both our country’s foremost hero and the mother of my child, but there will be no more to it than that. In public or in private. I would not shame you or her or myself by attempting to carry on some kind of an affair. I am not my father.” He had more to say, but she held up her hand.

“I understand.” Her brown eyes were no longer soft, and she looked as though she didn’t particularly like him, but he supposed he deserved that. “I will marry you, Alistair, because I feel it is my duty to Ferelden.”

Duty again. Someday, he was going to outlaw that word, if it was the last thing he did. 

“I will do my best to be a good wife to you, and to bear you an heir if that is my destiny … and yours. But in return, I expect a few things.”

“What are they?”

“Your ex-lover is not to spend a single night under the same roof as the two of us. And when you are in Amaranthine with her, you are to be chaperoned. I trust you will adhere to your word, but I do not want to hear more rumors than I will already have to.”

“That’s fair. The part in Amaranthine may be difficult, but I will do my best to make sure I do not cause rumor to arise.”

She looked as though she wanted to argue, but went on. “I would consider it a measure of your respect if you do not bring your child to the castle, at least until we have one of our own.”

That he hadn’t quite expected, but as he thought about it, he could understand where she was coming from. He inclined his head. “Is there anything else?”

Dorothea considered the question. “No. Not at the moment.” She studied him, then said, “Alistair.”

“Yes?”

“Have you thought about the kind of marriage we could have had, if not for all this?”

“A real marriage based on love and not just political expedience?” he asked. When she nodded, he said bitterly, “Yes, I think I can imagine it.”


	32. Consummation

“ … husband and wife,” said the Grand Cleric. Alistair turned to the woman at his side, lifting her veil. They made an attempt to smile at each other, their lips touching briefly. Since the interview at Arl Eamon’s palace six weeks earlier, they’d been strained with each other, polite and cordial but not going beyond that. 

They turned now, King Alistair and his new wife, to face the assembled nobles of Ferelden. A cheer erupted from the room, and he smiled, attempting to match the enthusiasm Dorothea was displaying. As they processed down the aisle past the guests he did his best to smile and look as though he was the excited but nervous bridegroom he was widely expected to be. He also tried to avoid meeting the eyes of those few close friends who knew what this day really meant to him. He was glad to have Bann Teagan, Arl Eamon, and especially Wynne and Leliana there, but they were reminders he couldn’t afford to face right at the moment, not if he was going to get through the rest of the day without embarrassing anyone.

After the banquet, the first dance was announced. Alistair took a deep breath, hoping the dance lessons he’d been taking would pay off. He looked at Dorothea. “Are you ready for this?”

“If you are,” she said. He led her onto the dance floor to the applause of the assembled guests.

“Has it … been everything you’d hoped for? The wedding, I mean?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you. Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Absolutely.” Alistair smiled at her. She smiled at him tentatively in return. He took a deep breath. “I hope we can make a fresh start today. Do you … agree?”

She studied him for a moment. “I think we can. I would like to.”

“Good.” He felt as if a weight was lifted from his chest. This was hard enough, without having to be at odds with her. 

“About later,” she said quietly.

“Later?” Maker take it, he was blushing. You’d think he’d have gotten over that by now. “You mean—?”

She was blushing, too, at least. “I just thought you ought to know that I’ve never—never … you know.”

“Ah. Um, I think that’s okay.” He took a deep breath. It felt strange and somewhat exciting to be the experienced one for a change.

“I suppose it’s good that one of us knows what we’re doing,” she offered. 

“I’ll, um, be gentle?” Alistair said, hoping to make her laugh. At least a little.

“I would hope so.” He couldn’t tell if she was amused or angry or what. 

After the dance was over, the new Queen’s father claimed her for the next one, and Alistair sought out the two women talking quietly at the edge of the room.

“What a lovely ceremony,” Leliana exclaimed, hugging him. 

Wynne hugged him as well. “I’m so glad I could be here today, Alistair.”

“Me, too,” he said. “How— How is she?”

“Ha!” Leliana said triumphantly. “Less than a minute.” She accepted the coin the mage handed her, grinning.

Wynne smiled at Alistair. “She’s doing fine.”

“Is it safe for you to be here? What if she—“

“It should be another month and a half, Alistair. Stop worrying so much.”

“Easy for you to say.” He looked around, then said quietly, “I’ll be there in about a month, and will plan to stay as long as is necessary.”

“Do you think that’s wise?” The mage looked at him levelly.

“Wise? Certainly not. But duty cuts in many directions, and in this case, requires my presence in Amaranthine.” His set face brooked no opposition. “I will not take the risk of … something happening while I am not there. She will not go through that without me.”

“As you say, Your Majesty,” Wynne said. “Now, you should enjoy your day. Your bride is lovely.”

Alistair looked for Dorothea, now dancing with Bann Teagan. “Yes. And more understanding than I have any right to expect,” he said. “I am very fortunate.”

“Yes, you are,” Leliana said meaningfully. “No self-pity allowed today.”

“I’m trying my very best,” he said. “Succeeding better than I expected. But still—I can’t help but think…” His voice trailed off. They knew what he would have said, and there was no point in repeating it. He held out his hand to Leliana. “Would you like to dance?”

“My pleasure.”

Hours later, Alistair found himself at the door of his new bride’s chambers. She and her attendants had asked for an hour to prepare. He’d found it both too long and too short as he simultaneously dreaded what was to come and wanted to get it over with. Now he stood outside, holding a small nosegay of flowers. He knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

Alistair opened the door, stepping inside. She stood in the middle of the room, her brown curls flowing around her shoulders, wearing a filmy white garment of some kind. The pose was the same as Thora’s had been the night when he’d first seen her hair down, and he swallowed, his throat suddenly dry at the memory. All the thoughts and feelings he’d tried to dam up all day were suddenly clamoring at him, and it was only with great difficulty that he managed to smile at the lovely girl in front of him, holding the flowers out wordlessly. He didn’t trust his voice.

“Thank you, Alistair.” Dorothea smiled up at him, taking a hesitant step forward.

Desperately, he shoved all his memories back, thinking his wife’s name over and over to try and drown out the other name that pounded in his head with every beat of his heart. “Dorothea,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. He closed the door behind him, taking her hand and leading her to the bed. “You’re not … frightened, are you?” he asked, doing his best to focus on her.

“No. I … trust you.” The words seemed to come unwillingly, but she’d said them. Whether he deserved them or not, he would have to earn them, starting right now.

His fingers touched her hair, trembling slightly. He leaned forward, placing his mouth on hers, softly at first, then increasing the pressure until her mouth opened with a gasp and his tongue touched hers. Dorothea’s arms twined around his neck, her tongue meeting his shyly, but with growing confidence, and they lay back on the bed. As his hands explored her body, Dorothea moaned, arching against him, and Alistair’s body began to respond to her rising excitement. 

Dorothea’s reactions to his touch grew more and more intense, and his passion rose in return as the consummation he had worried so much about moved on to its inevitable climax.


	33. Birth

Thora twisted and writhed in the bed, her body arching, then relaxing as the pain receded, briefly. Sweat stood out on her face as she tried to regroup, to prepare herself before the next contraction struck. But there wasn’t time, and a moan was wrenched from her against her will as the pain took over again.

Dimly she was aware of the warm hand in hers, and she clung to it, no longer even noticing the unfamiliar gold band on the third finger.

When the labor had begun, Alistair had started to take the ring off, wanting for this one last moment to have it be just them again, but Thora had stopped him. “If I let you take your ring off for me,” she had said, touching the chain at his throat, “will you take this off for her?” Their eyes had met, both of them knowing that however much they pretended, a barrier had been introduced that had never been there before. So he kept the ring on, even if it cut into his finger as she clung to his hand while the pains wracked her body.

He and Leliana and Oghren had kept Thora on her feet as long as they could in the early stages of the labor, letting Wynne rest as much as possible. None of them had really talked about it, but they were all concerned about how it would go. Judging by the size of Thora’s belly, the baby was larger than most dwarven babies, and the ever-present concerns about the effect of the taint added to that made the atmosphere in the keep very tense. They all suspected Wynne’s talents would be needed at their freshest toward the end of the labor.

Eventually the pain had become too intense, and Thora had taken to her bed. A numbing spell had taken the edge off the pain for a brief while, but it had worn off now and Wynne was afraid to try another one, knowing she would need Thora alert when the pushing stage arrived. 

Now Wynne checked Thora’s progress. “It could be any time now,” she said calmly, trying to keep her concern off her face. “Let me know if you feel the urge to push.”

Thora nodded, unable to get breath enough to speak as the pains arrived on top of each other. She clung to Alistair’s hand like a lifeline, and he did his best not to let her see how afraid he was. He’d never seen anything like this before and he didn’t see how she could endure much more of it. Not to mention that he hoped Wynne would have a healing spell left over at the end of all this, because his hand felt broken in multiple places from the strength of his love’s grip. 

“How much longer can this go on, Wynne?” he asked, as quietly as he could. The mage simply looked at him, shaking her head once, and he shut his mouth. 

“Wynne,” Thora gasped, her eyes widening.

“Do you feel it?” the mage asked. Thora nodded. “All right, here’s what I want you to do: take a deep breath, and bear down. Try to keep it up until I count to 10.” So they did that. Again, and again, and again, for hours. But Wynne couldn’t tell that Thora was making any progress at all. She straightened at last, her eyes meeting Thora’s anguished ones. Wynne didn’t want to answer the mute question she saw there. She sighed. “Nothing is happening. You either have to push harder, or … we have to do something else.”

Thora’s head, soaked with sweat, sank back onto the pillows. Push harder? She had nothing left. And the pain was unremitting now. She felt a cool cloth wiping the sweat off her face, and she did her best to smile at Leliana, seeing the worry in the bard’s blue eyes. Alistair, on the other side of her, opened the hand she’d been clutching his with, nuzzling her palm. Probably to avoid looking at her, she thought. Alistair’s face was like an open book. 

“What can you do?” he asked Wynne quietly.

“I could try and … cut the baby out,” Wynne said reluctantly, not meeting Thora’s eyes.

“Have you done it before?” Leliana asked.

“Yes … but never successfully.” Now she did look at Thora. “I don’t think you would live through it.”

Alistair smoothed his hand over Thora’s brow, looking at her. They had talked about the potential for this kind of situation—rather, Thora had talked while Alistair loudly protested that nothing of the kind was likely to come up. She had made it clear that if it came down to her or the baby, the baby was to be the priority. Alistair looked deeply into her eyes now. “Can you push harder, love? Or do we—“ He broke off. He simply couldn’t finish that sentence. 

Looking up, Thora met Wynne’s eyes, both of them frantically trying to think what they could do that might help. At last, Thora made a feeble attempt to sit up. Alistair tried to keep her lying down, murmuring something about saving her strength, but Wynne’s eyes gleamed. “Alistair, help her! You, too, Leliana. Let’s see if we can get her to sit up, maybe the baby will have a slightly easier time.” They helped Thora up, scooting her down the bed, so that she sat on the very end. The pain was excruciating, but Wynne, kneeling down, looked relieved. “I think I can see the baby’s head. Can you push?” 

Thora sighed, leaning back against Alistair’s strong shoulder, right behind her as it was meant to be. “Alistair,” she whispered with difficulty. 

“My love?”

“Lie to me.”

For a moment, he was confused, then he understood. Cradling her beloved form to him, he whispered into her ear, “My darling, as soon as you deliver this baby, you and I will spend the rest of our lives together. We’ll live in Amaranthine as Warden Commander and her devoted Lieutenant, and there will be no Calling—we’ll live a full lifespan together …” He continued in that vein, holding her and pouring into her ear all sorts of delightful lies about their future together. Just hearing his voice and pretending that all the things he was saying were true gave Thora new energy, as she imagined the warm and loving life she would be bringing their baby into. With everything that was in her, with all the strength he gave her, she bore down. 

Wynne let out a delighted shriek. “I see the baby! Do it again!”

Leliana gripped Thora’s other hand as the dwarf relaxed for a moment against the strong chest of her lover, listening to the sweet falsehoods he was weaving for her. Thora took a deep breath and pushed again. She felt Alistair’s arms tighten around her, and she gave it everything she had left. A warmth spread through her as she dimly heard Wynne chanting something. She felt an excruciating tearing sensation and then an incredible feeling of relief. Nearly spent, she sagged back against Alistair’s shoulder, her eyes closed, listening.

And then it came, the squalling. Quiet at first, but growing louder. Alistair caught his breath.

“Is the baby—?” Thora asked faintly, afraid to open her eyes. “Not … not …” She couldn’t finish.

“Not darkspawn,” Wynne said quietly, but Thora could hear the happiness in her friend’s voice. She opened her eyes and took a look at the little pink face, open in outrage as Wynne toweled it off. “It’s a girl, my dears,” the mage said, near tears.

“Pay up,” Thora murmured.

Alistair grinned. “Gladly.” He’d never seen anything so beautiful in his whole life. He held out his arms and Wynne laid the swaddled baby in them. Alistair cuddled both his girls close to him, reveling in this moment. All four of them gazed at the little face. Her hair was dark and her eyes blue, like most newborns, but the face …

“It’s a good thing you already decided to acknowledge her, Alistair,” Leliana said. “Because I think you’d have to.” There was no mistaking those features—the Theirin nose, the shape of the mouth and eyes. She was a perfect little miniature of her father. Thora was delighted. Alistair was flummoxed. He had never expected to see himself stamped so clearly on another person.

Wynne, nearing exhaustion, finished the cleanup and healing with Leliana’s help. They both stood, looking at the happy family in front of them. “Have you thought of a name for this lovely little one?”

Thora looked down at the tiny baby in Alistair’s arms. “We thought about it,” she said, “and decided to name her after our two favorite people. Her name is Anawyn.” Leliana and Wynne looked at each other, and the bard burst into tears. Wynne sniffed and swiped at her eyes.

“My dears,” she said, looking at them affectionately. Then she gave a great yawn. “I believe I need to find my bed before I collapse. Will you be all right?” She looked at Thora.

The dwarf nodded. She caught Wynne’s hand in hers. “Thank you, my friend.”

“It was one of the greatest pleasures of my life,” the mage said. Leliana accompanied the mage as she left the room, and after feeding the baby for the first time, Thora, too, fell asleep. Alistair was left the only one awake, not wanting to miss a precious moment with the miracle in his arms.


	34. Different Now

Two days later Thora woke from a nap to find Alistair standing in her room, holding the baby, carrying on what appeared to be a lively conversation with her. Thora hadn’t been at all surprised at what a natural father he’d turned out to be—his skill at things like nappy changes and swaddling far outstripped her own, and the baby was completely entranced by him. She sat and watched the two of them for a moment, drinking in the sight and committing it to memory. 

Things were already different. It wasn’t just the ring he wore. Other than when she’d actively been in labor, he was keeping his distance. Polite, friendly, even, but keeping anything intimate bottled up. It was better than it had been after the Landsmeet—at least he wasn’t angry with her, as he had been then—but also somewhat worse, as underneath the anger had always been the passion. He was keeping that firmly in check. Not that she’d have been interested, given the just having had a baby, but it was strange not to see it. Thora couldn’t help but wonder if his brief weeks of marriage—and the accompanying nights with his bride—had shown him the delights of being with a human woman. She suspected that might be unfair to him, but she couldn’t help it. She hadn’t felt beautiful or desirable in quite some time.

She must have made some sound, because he turned now to look at her. “I think her hair’s going to be red,” he said. “Like yours.” He handed the baby off to Thora, turning away as she began to breastfeed. “I’m going to have to leave tomorrow,” he said. “I’ve … been here as long as I can probably afford to be.”

Thora wondered bitterly if that was because of his job or his wife, but she said only, “I know.”

Still not looking at her, he said, “Things will be … different now. I promised certain things, you know? And I think she deserves them. It’s really not fair, the position we—she’s been put in.”

“I know,” she said again. He’d told her about Dorothea’s requests. Thora had a hard time feeling too much sympathy for the queen, but she knew Alistair felt incredibly guilty and would probably have done pretty much anything the queen asked. 

“I’ll be back,” he said, “as often as I can, to see Anawyn. And you, of course.”

“Of course.” He sounded so stiff and formal, Thora thought in many ways it would be a relief when he was gone. At least the knife wouldn’t be constantly twisting in the open wound.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish … but I thought she deserved a certain amount of respect. And what she asked for … wasn’t unreasonable.”

Thora looked at him. “You are a man of honor,” she said. “I would not have you be any other way.”

He flashed her a grateful glance. “You’ll be in Denerim for the anniversary?”

“Yes. See if you can keep the parties to a minimum, will you?”

“I’ll do my best, but I suspect no one will be leaving any party planning in my hands,” he said, sounding like himself again for a moment.

“And a good thing, too,” she said, smirking at him. He laughed, but the lightening of the mood didn’t last. His smile faded and he turned back to the window, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“I’m wondering if you could spare Wynne for a while. … Oh, what an incredibly inappropriate thing to bring up right now,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”

“No need,” Thora said, sighing wearily as she shifted the baby to her shoulder to burp. “I understand why you would want Wynne, and if she wants to return with you, you all have my blessing.”

“Thank you.” He turned to look at her, entranced by the image of the two of them there—his loves. Alistair knew he would go back to the palace feeling that an even larger piece of his heart had been left behind here. At the same time, he couldn’t be here without feeling guilty. Not just for everything he couldn’t offer the woman he had taken as his wife, but for being here at all. But once he was in Denerim, he would feel guilty because he wasn’t here, sharing the joys and responsibilities of parenting and wardening with the woman he had given his heart to. “I’ll see you later,” he said quietly. “I’m sure the little one could use her sleep.” He was reaching for the doorknob when Thora called his name. “Yes?” 

“There’s something we’ve never talked about, something I want to tell you.”

He looked wary—he didn’t think he could take any more emotional harrowing. The idea of riding off and leaving them both had him twisted into knots and it was as much as he could do to hold it all in. “What is that?”

“Later, when it’s time for you to go to Orzammar—if you have to go before I do … I’ll be with you. For the Calling.” 

His eyes studied her face. “And if your turn should come before mine, I’ll be with you. That will make it something to look forward to, won’t it?” he said softly. They looked at each other for a long moment, and then he left the room.


	35. Prepared

About six months later, Thora arrived in Denerim for the anniversary festivities. She was accompanied by Oghren and Felsi, who had joined them at midwinter and finally dragged Oghren by his beard to the altar only a month ago. Also in the party were baby Anawyn and her nurse, and two of the new recruits who had arrived in the early spring. 

Fourteen recruits had arrived from Orzammar, ready for their Joining, and ten of those had survived the ritual. Fortunately, Alistair had come for the Joining. Thora didn’t think she could have done that by herself. Especially not when one recruit, a dwarf named Frink, had run after the first recruit fell. Alistair had caught him and dispatched him, as Duncan had done with Jory so long ago. It felt like a lifetime. Accompanying Thora now were Dennis, a mage from the Circle, and Xandros, an elf from the Alienage. 

Crowds were lined up on either side of the street, cheering, as the Hero of Ferelden returned to Denerim. Thora was glad for once to be on horseback, high above the crowd, although in general she preferred walking with the good solid ground beneath her feet. Here and there she saw people she recognized from her travels, nodding cordially at them, but mostly she was focused on just getting through. It was the first time she had traveled with the baby, and she had found it a bit more complicated than she was used to. Anawyn had enjoyed the trip, though, looking around her placidly, her soft brown eyes round and excited. True to his word, Alistair showed up at Amaranthine about once a month, spent a couple of days playing with Anawyn, spoke to Thora briefly about Warden matters, the kingdom, and the baby, and left again. It was all so impersonal, if it hadn’t been for their child Thora might have thought she’d imagined the laughing, tender lover she’d once had. She said as much to Oghren once, but the other dwarf had just snorted and told her not to be so hard on the boy. “You try pleasin’ two women at once and see what it does to ya. And I’ll watch,” Oghren had said, elbowing her in the ribs. And that had been the end of that conversation—it took two days for Oghren’s jaw to heal after she’d punched him.

They finally reached the Grey Warden apartments in Denerim, getting in and unpacking. Thora, having fed the baby and put her to bed, was relaxing in a hot bath when there was a knock on the door. “Who is it?” she asked. 

“Wynne, my dear,” came the familiar patrician voice of the mage. Wynne had been in Denerim for a couple of months, following Alistair’s request. With Leliana in and out of the city on Chantry business, Wynne suspected the need for her presence stemmed as much from Alistair’s loneliness as from his need for her help with conceiving an heir.

Thora reached for a towel. “Come in, my friend!”

Wynne’s first look was for the crib in the corner. “Look at the little angel,” she said softly, bending over the sleeping face. “How is she doing?”

“Lovely! She learned to sit up last week, and is rolling back and forth like a pro,” said Thora proudly, wrapping herself in a thick robe. “And you? How is palace life treating you?” She did not ask what she really wanted to know, which was all the details of Alistair’s new life with the queen. 

Wynne cast the dwarf a glance. “It’s certainly lavish. The queen is very good at keeping her guests happy. Unfortunately, she does not trust mages, so I’ve had a difficult time helping her." She shrugged. “Of course, Alistair’s the one with the taint, so it makes sense that I should be working on him, but the queen insists the Chantry would not approve of my assistance.” Wynne sighed. “Perhaps she is right. Still, I can feel the spirit sustaining me weakening little by little, and I would like to see the succession ensured before … it is too late. At any rate, I am bidden to ask you to come to the castle tomorrow. I believe the king and queen would like to see you before the festivities later this week.”

“You mean, in case it’s too awkward?” Thora gave a half-smile. “Very prudent.”

“I believe you’ll find the king is that way,” Wynne said quietly. “Prudent. Thoughtful. It is a new side of him. I think perhaps he is afraid of making mistakes and that makes him … hesitant.”

“Very mature of him,” Thora said, but she busied herself unpacking a bag so Wynne couldn’t look her in the eye. She thought that description didn’t sound like Alistair at all.

“Thora.” At that, she did look up. “Do not blame her for this. He is feeling his way, and she supports him to the best of her ability. She—does not know the same person we did. And he is not unhappy.”

“Good for them,” Thora said. “Why do I feel as though you’re warning me?”

“Tomorrow,” the mage said, “will be the first time you see them together. I want you to be prepared.”

Thora sighed wearily. “I suppose you’re right, Wynne.” She ran a hand through her short red hair. “Is Leliana back in town yet?”

“Yes,” smiled Wynne. “We have missed you. She will be there tomorrow, and I am to bring Oghren and Felsi as well. The king intends it to be a small party so that the queen can get to know his traveling companions.”

“Won’t that be fun? Too bad we can’t scare Morrigan up from somewhere and give the queen the full experience,” Thora said, and they both laughed. The two women spent the rest of the evening together, talking and playing with the baby when she woke up.


	36. Showdown

The next day, leaving Anawyn with her nurse and the two new Wardens keeping an eye on things, Thora and Oghren and Felsi set out for the palace. When they entered, the guards immediately bowed to the Hero of Ferelden. “We are to take you to their Majesties, Commander,” said one of them respectfully.

Thora took a deep breath. “Lead on,” she said.

They came into the great hall, the three dwarves following the guards. Thora noted Wynne and Leliana were both there, standing near a fireplace, watching out of the corner of their eyes. Whose behavior were they most curious about, she wondered—hers, Alistair’s, or the queen’s? And then they were in front of their Majesties, both of whom rose from their chairs as the dwarves approached. “Your Majesties,” Thora said, crossing her arm over her chest and bowing. She could tell that Oghren and Felsi were kneeling, but she would not. Could not. He had asked her never to kneel to him. As she raised her eyes to the queen’s face, she saw that remaining upright hadn’t done her any favors. Alistair didn’t seem to notice anything untoward, though … but then again, he was carefully studying things in the middle distance so he wouldn’t have to make eye contact with either woman. 

“Dorothea, may I present Thora? And Oghren, and Felsi.” Felsi curtseyed, and Oghren brayed something, but Thora wasn’t paying attention to them. She was watching the queen, as the queen watched her.

“Commander,” the queen said.

“Your Majesty.” And battle was joined. Alistair looked at both of them, their silence speaking volumes that he couldn’t read, and wondered if being a Templar would really have been so bad after all.

With the formal introductions over, the group of them removed themselves to the comfortable seating area near the fireplace. “So, Felsi,” Leliana said. “How is married life?” She hadn’t been to Amaranthine since Felsi had been forced to wrestle Oghren to the ground and hold him there long enough for the Revered Mother to perform the service. 

“Oghren was actually sober one day last week. And clean,” Thora put in. “He was nearly unrecognizable.”

Felsi grinned. “And useless as a hungry cave tick.”

Oghren grunted. “Won’t make that mistake again soon, will ya, woman?”

Thora was laughing when she heard a soft voice at her shoulder. “Commander, I believe we should speak.”

Looking up, she saw the queen, and inclined her head in response. “Your Majesty.” She followed the queen out of the room. 

A hush fell as everyone else watched the two women go. “Maybe they’ll get it all out of their systems,” Alistair said hopefully.

Oghren laughed uproariously. “Don’t you bet on it, boy. Them two women are enemies for life. Couldn’t be otherwise.” When Alistair grimaced, Oghren clapped him on the back. “Take it as a compliment. Isn’t every blighter that gets two fine women like that fightin’ over ‘im.”

“Why doesn’t that make me feel any better?” Alistair muttered under his breath, taking the tankard of ale the dwarf handed him.

“Better start drinkin’ now.”

“That seems likely to get me into a lot more trouble,” Alistair said, but he took a long swallow anyway.

The two women had reached the queen’s private sitting room. Dorothea took a seat on a sofa embroidered in lovely blue damask. Her cream and blue gown spread out neatly across the rich fabric, and she leaned back, the picture of a noble lady. Thora stood near the door, her red hair slightly tousled, in at ease position.

They stared at each other for a long moment. 

At last Dorothea sighed. “You’re not what I expected.”

“No. I imagine I’m not.” Thora didn’t add that Dorothea was pretty much exactly what she had expected.

There was another long silence. Finally, Dorothea said, “This … situation is most awkward.” Her mouth turned down in a pouty frown that said more clearly than any words who she blamed for it.   
Thora said, “Look, I understand that this is no picnic for you. One day you’re in the middle of a fairytale—a young and handsome king, who also happens to be tender and charming, has asked you to marry him. Then the next day you discover that unlike in the fairytales, the king has a past. A history that cannot be ignored. And you’re forced to wake up and write your own fairytale, that of the young queen who gets to spend every day and every night with the handsome and charming king, even though the days and nights are a bit more complicated than ‘happily ever after’.” She shrugged. “I have to say, it might not be exactly what you dreamed of, but it sounds awfully good to me.”

“Good. Really? I’ll remember that the next time he calls your name while he’s laying with me,” Dorothea said bitterly. She stood up, looking down at the dwarf. “All that aside, Alistair and I are in charge of putting this kingdom back together. I intend to help him reach his potential and become a great king, respected throughout the land and abroad. But we cannot rule together effectively if you won’t let him go.”

“Let him go! I don’t have him,” Thora protested. “He sees me as little as possible. Trust me, Your Majesty—trust him—there is nothing to let go of. I can’t help whose name he calls, and I suspect he can’t either. He’d probably be mortified if he realized he was doing that.”

“How can you say you’ve let go if you have him running off to see you every month?”

“That’s not for me, that’s for our daughter.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“It really isn’t.” Thora looked the queen in the eyes. “And that was his decision, not mine. Do not underestimate the man you married, Majesty. He is not a pawn or a tool to be used as you see fit.”

“You say that? When you wielded him like a sword to lever Queen Anora off the throne?”

Thora had never missed Orzammar politics so much in her life. At least there she could have just challenged the queen in a Proving. “I was ending a Blight. Fereldan politics were a distant second in importance. Besides, putting Alistair on the throne was the right thing for Ferelden.” 

“It didn’t hurt your position, either, did it?” Dorothea raised an eyebrow. “Comfy little Arling, the ear of the King … not bad for an exiled dwarf.”

“I think cutting the head off the Archdemon and ending the Blight had quite a bit to do with my receiving the Arling; the ear of the King came through countless battles where we fought side-by-side; and I am no longer an exile. As a matter of fact, I’ve recently been told the Assembly has voted to make me a Paragon.” 

“How nice for you,” said the queen. 

Thora shrugged. “It’s largely ceremonial, although it has great implications for the future of the dwarven kingdom, allowing a surfacer to become a Paragon. But that’s beside the point.”

“Yes. Yes, it is,” the queen said. “I want to make sure you understand that I am his wife, and my child will be his heir, and together we will rebuild Ferelden and see to it that our country is respected in all of Thedas.”

“I have no designs on your throne, Your Majesty. Not for myself, or for my child. And as for rebuilding Ferelden, you have my support. Both of you.”

“You say that, but why should I believe you? You won’t even kneel to your rulers.” 

Thora stood at attention in front of the queen. “Your Majesty, tread carefully. You are the Queen of Ferelden, but I am not one of your subjects. I am a dwarf of Orzammar and Commander of the Grey. I respect the authority of the king and have sworn him my allegiance, but I kneel to no man. Or woman.”

Dorothea looked at the dwarf, her eyes hard. “Be aware that if I ever think you or your child are likely to be a danger to this kingdom, or to Alistair, I will not hesitate to act.”

“Is that a threat, Your Majesty?” Thora said, her voice quiet and cold. “Because I think you should know that better people than you have threatened me. I am still here; they are not. And if you ever make another threat toward the life of my child, I will see to it that it’s the last thing you ever do. Now, I’m going to leave Denerim after this anniversary celebration and go back to Amaranthine, and I will not darken your door again unless absolutely necessary … but I expect the same from you. You leave me alone, I will leave you alone. Do we have an understanding?”

Dorothea stood to her full height, looking down at the dwarf. “We do.”

Thora turned and opened the door. Without looking back, she said, “Your Majesty.”

In the middle of her sitting room, Dorothea stared after the dwarf, her face unreadable.


	37. Anniversary

The following day was the great parade in celebration of the Archdemon’s death. The king and queen rode together in a carriage, with the Grey Warden and the rest of the party behind in another one. The crowds cheered and threw flowers as they passed. Clearly the past year had not dimmed the popularity of the Hero of Ferelden.

At length they arrived back at the palace, where Alistair took his place on the balcony, looking out over a sea of citizens. “Fereldans!” he said loudly, and the crowd began to quiet. “We are assembled here to celebrate the killing of the Archdemon and the ending of the shortest Blight in recorded history. Today we honor King Cailan and Duncan, the Grey Wardens, and everyone who died for our country in that terrible struggle. We honor the hard work of all of Ferelden’s citizens, who have tirelessly labored to rebuild what was destroyed by the darkspawn. We bid welcome to Queen Dorothea, who has taken her place to rule our nation at my side.” He motioned to the queen, and she stood next to him, smiling and waving at the crowd. Alistair looked back out at the people, and spoke again. “But most of all, we are here to say thank you once again to Thora Aeducan, Hero of Ferelden, for her many sacrifices on behalf of this nation.”

Turning, he motioned furiously to Thora, who sighed, but came forward. She waved her arms to try and still the cheering. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said. “Let us not forget today all those to whom we owe thanks, as well as respect. The mages of the Circle fought at our side. The Dalish elves came from the forests to fight with us, as did those of the Alienage. The dwarves came from Orzammar. Ferelden was saved by all of her citizens acting together, in concert, toward a single goal. Let us not lose sight of that—together is the way we defeated the Blight, and together is the way we will rebuild this nation.”

The three of them stood there, facing the people: Alistair in gleaming royal armor flanked by his wife, her hair carefully coiffed, her gown delicate and lacy, and Thora, her short red hair wind-blown and her black Legion of the Dead armor a stark reminder of everything they had all lost. 

And in the back of the crowd, an aged woman looked up at the balcony and laughed.


End file.
